


The Season of Rain

by idrilka



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-12
Updated: 2010-10-12
Packaged: 2017-10-12 15:26:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/126358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idrilka/pseuds/idrilka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nate is the only son of a couple of millionaires who managed to piss off the wrong people, Brad is the bodyguard assigned to protect him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Season of Rain

**Author's Note:**

> I'm just playing around with the cliché a bit in this one. I'd like to thank [](http://noelia-g.livejournal.com/profile)[**noelia-g**](http://noelia-g.livejournal.com/) , [](http://kubis.livejournal.com/profile)[**kubis**](http://kubis.livejournal.com/) , [](http://lunatics-word.livejournal.com/profile)[**lunatics-word**](http://lunatics-word.livejournal.com/) , [](http://mlekopijca.livejournal.com/profile)[**mlekopijca**](http://mlekopijca.livejournal.com/) and [](http://soriso.livejournal.com/profile)[**soriso**](http://soriso.livejournal.com/) for their support, comments and suggestions. Also, many thanks to [](http://noelia-g.livejournal.com/profile)[**noelia-g**](http://noelia-g.livejournal.com/) for beta-reading.
> 
> Can be also read [here on livejournal](http://idrilka.livejournal.com/117601.html#cutid1).

"Mike Wynn has been shot." The news comes in the late afternoon, brought by Bryan Patterson who wears a scowl the size of Texas, although he tries to cover it with an impassive expression. He fails. Brad is wondering who fucked up this time. His money is on Schwetje. "He's alive," Patterson continues, "the bullet hit the arm and didn't do too much damage, fortunately, but he won't be working anytime soon."

"What happened?" It's Lovell who finally decides to ask the question that's on the tip of everybody's tongue.

"It was an accident. Some trigger-happy motherfuckers were trying to rob a jeweler's store downtown, Gunny wanted to get Nate into the car as quick as possible, got in the cross-fire, took a bullet. Lost some blood, but he's fine now. Conscious, at least."

There's silence, followed by a quiet _fuck_ , and Brad's pretty sure it's Walt who says it, because he's still so young inside and it sometimes shows on the outside—he doesn't hide his emotions too well and says out loud what everybody else only thinks.

"So, who's going to take over from him on the babysitting duty?" Ray asks, looking up from his place by the table standing in the corner of the room.

Patterson looks straight at Brad, who knows what Bryan is going to say before he even opens his mouth. "Brad, Mrs. Fick is expecting you in her study."

Brad nods and turns to leave. "Gents," he says with another curt nod before shutting the door on his way out.

"Brad, since you're here I presume that you have already heard what happened to Mike Wynn," says Barbara Fick once Brad enters the room, closing the door quietly.

Brad observes her closely—she looks like she grew older by about a decade in the time span of a minute. It's no surprise, either, that's what happens to you when you realize that your only child could've been the one lying in a hospital bed with a hole in his arm. (Or at the morgue, but he almost doesn't add that, even in his mind.)

"Yes, ma'am," he answers, involuntarily snapping to something that resembles attention a bit too much for his comfort. He left that life behind, but in the presence of this woman it all resurfaces, and Brad knows exactly where that comes from—he respects her too much to stand at ease in front of her, it's automatic, just the way it was with his best COs. "I assume that this is also why I'm standing here."

"I want you to take over from Mike. My husband and I made some unpopular decisions regarding our support for certain initiatives and the people we managed to get angry don't take kindly to that sort of actions, especially when they so clearly oppose their aims." Her mouth forms a thin line and she clenches her hands so hard that her knuckles go white. "There have been threats." Her voice shakes almost imperceptibly, Brad wouldn't even notice if it weren't for his extensive training. "And I don't want my son to live in a cage, I really don't, Mr. Colbert, but if I don't have any other choice, I'd rather he live in a cage than be dead, I hope you understand that."

Brad doesn't, really, but on the other hand, he understands her point of view. Her son is only nineteen, there's no reason for him to die because his parents weren't popular with guns dealers and shady pharmaceutical concerns. Brad is impressed, too. It's amazing how the Ficks—always the idealists, who were never spoiled by their fortune any more than it was inescapable, and who always stuck to what they believed in—managed to piss off so many people in such a short amount of time.

Brad remembers the days from before the threats started, when the security was tight, but never too tight. Now, it seems, you can't make a step without bumping into a guard. His life used to be easier, too, but then again, Brad's life has always had only various degrees of being hard, it was never _easy_ to begin with, so he doesn't really have a reason to complain. Compared to Afghanistan or Iraq, this job is like a walk in the park on a sunny morning. At least he has all the gear he needs and the chow doesn't suck hairy balls.

"Of course, ma'am," he says.

"You are to stay with him at all times, I don't want him going out without you anywhere, even if it's just for a walk around garden or for a run in the park."

Brad nods. He understands what's being required of him—to be a shadow, always there, but never really noticed or paid any attention to, like an extension of the décor, only with a gun; swift, silent and deadly if needed. He's done it before, his two years in the Secret Service taught him how to blend in well in situations other than combat and be effective without being too much in everybody's face. He can do this.

"Understood, ma'am."

Barbara Fick looks at him from above her glasses. "I want to make one thing clear, Mr. Colbert. I know that it's your profession of choice, what you do here, but it doesn't change the fact that we're deeply grateful for everything you do." She takes the glasses off and puts them away on the desk. "I've been told that you're the best specialist in this business, and so far I don't see any evidence to the contrary. Oh, one more thing, Mr. Colbert. Nate decided to go back to Baltimore for the summer, you're going to be relocating with him, obviously. He's already on his way to the house, Mr. Kocher is with him for the time being, but he needs to come back here as soon as possible. Take Mr. Hasser and Mr. Person with you, if you will. They're being briefed as we speak."

"Of course, ma'am."

He turns to leave, but as he's about to open the door, his hand already on the handle, Barbara Fick says, "Brad," and it's so unexpected, because she never addresses him by his first name. There's determination on her face when he looks at her. "I'm trusting you with my son's life. Do whatever it takes to keep him safe."

Brad would normally say that this resembles a scene from a bad Lifetime movie more than anything else, but there's something in Nate's mother's eyes that makes him rethink that comparison. There's nothing cheap about trying to hold your family together and alive and well, whatever the cost.

He nods in reply, then finally leaves.

"Person, Hasser," he says once he's back in the security headquarters; Patterson must have already finished briefing Ray and Walt, because he's nowhere to be seen, "go get your shit and meet me down at the garage in half an hour. We're going on a fucking roadtrip."

* * *

The house in Baltimore—although a _mansion_ would probably be a more appropriate term here, Brad thinks—is located on the outskirts of the city, in a completely secluded area, and surrounded by a huge, old park that guarantees that kind of privacy most people couldn't even imagine, not to mention dream of.

It's both an advantage and a disadvantage, from a military point of view. On one hand, any suspicious activity is relatively easy to detect, with the help of appropriate equipment and appropriate people, and Brad has both at his disposal. On the other hand, given how vast the terrain is and how closed off the location, there are still possible ways to stage an attack, but it's Brad's job to ensure it doesn't come to that, and he's damn good at what he does.

Eric Kocher is waiting for them on the front steps.

"So, the scuttlebutt is true, then. The Iceman gets stuck with the babysitting duty," he laughs under his breath, shaking his head.

Brad straightens up almost imperceptibly.

"Yeah, that babysitting duty is what almost got Gunny schwacked, so I'd think twice before dismissing it so quickly," he says.

Kocher makes a non-committal noise. "Solid copy. It does present you with some challenge, I agree. The kid's all right, though. You'll see. Anyway, think that we could be stuck with a whiny, spoiled brat who doesn't understand what exactly is at stake here. I say we should count our blessings."

"We'll see about that. Now, I'm told that you're to head back immediately, they need you for something in D.C. Maybe Captain America finally lit himself on fire. I don't even know why they keep this retard around." Brad spits on the impeccably kept driveway.

Kocher gives him a long look. "Apparently he has friends in high places. Some fucking friends, to that, 'cause I can't see how else he could survive in this business for so long."

Brad raises an eyebrow.

"Something about counting our blessings, you were saying? Well, I, for one, am fucking grateful that I don't have anything to do with that moron on a daily basis. Take care, Eric."

Kocher gives Brad a mock salute, then he gets into the car and drives away.

Ray and Walt are already bringing their bags in and talking to the housekeeper to make sure everything's arranged the way it's supposed to be.

"You were talking about the fucking Captain America?" Ray asks, dumping the last bag in the middle of the hallway. There's still enough space for the army of Hannibal to march through. _With_ the fucking elephants. "That man is fucked in the head, homes. I mean, there are levels of stupidity some people don't even know about, and then there's Captain America, right at the bottom of that shit. Even Trombley was less retarded."

Brad closes his eyes, just for a moment. When he opens them, the sunlight blinds him like a muzzle flash. He can almost hear the mortars. "Don't talk about Trombley, Ray. Shut up and do your job."

"Fine, fine!" Ray backpedals, raising his hands as if to say _I give up_. "Jesus. Seriously, though, Brad, you should get some, maybe then you'd be less homicidal."

"Ray, I'm being _paid_ to be homicidal, remember?" Brad picks up his bags, intent on finding a place where he can stow his shit and finally get to work. "Besides, I don't think the Ficks would appreciate me bringing a whore into this house. Think of the children, Ray, think of the children. Or about one particular child in this case."

"Yeah, I don't think we're dealing with a child here, Brad." Ray wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. "Have you seen the little Nate lately? He sure eats his wheaties and drinks his milk, homes, 'cause he's a fucking grown man now. And my sources tell me that he's boning some hot chick, so I think he's past the point of being innocent and waiting to be depraved, too. And my sources are fucking awesome and reliable, so there you go. Would I lie to you, Brad? Do you really think your dearest pal Ray-Ray would do that to you?"

The thing is, Brad hasn't been around Nate that much, and he doesn't even think they spoke to each other before, so all he has are brief glimpses caught here and there, but they don't make up a full image and Brad isn't entirely sure what to expect.

What he certainly doesn't expect are huge, green eyes that are just a bit too red to justify it with too much reading and an open face of a kid who isn't a kid anymore.

"Mr. Fick?" Brad starts politely. "My name's Brad Colbert and I'm going to be taking over Mike's duties."

"How is Mike?" Nate asks, not actually listening to anything Brad has to say, the minute he steps into his room. It's big and bright, filled with books, pictures and other belongings, and not at all as impersonal as Brad expected it to be. He's seen such rooms before, kept meticulously tidy by the housekeeping staff and looking like they're not lived in at all. This one is different.

"He's going to be okay," Brad says in what he hopes is a reassuring voice. "They keep him in hospital for now, but he regained consciousness and it looks like the damage to his arm is minimal."

Nate exhales. "Thank God. I didn't— I couldn't—"

"Don't worry about him. He's fine." Then Brad remembers why he's here, exactly. "Now, as I was saying, my name's—"

"I know who you are," Nate interrupts him, and it sounds a bit defensive, a bit wary. Brad raises an eyebrow. "I mean, I'm sorry," he adds, clearly flustered, if the slight blush is any indication. "That came out rude. What I meant to say was that I've heard about you. But then again, who hasn't?"

There's a ghost of a smile playing on Nate's lips, under all that worry and tension. The kid still looks pretty shaken up, and that's understandable. It's not every day someone gets shot right next to you, trying to protect you. But there's something else, too. Guilt. Brad knows this one a bit too well.

"Look, it's not your fault," he says, placing a hand on Nate's shoulder, and he can see that Nate's eyes widen. He thought he had everybody fooled, apparently. Brad wants to shake his head at Nate's naivety. "What happened to Gunny was an accident. You're not to blame."

"I know." Nate breathes in and out, straightening up, putting up a brave front.

"Now try to believe it."

Nate looks him right in the eye and Brad holds his gaze. It's a challenge of sorts, and Brad never backs down from a challenge.

"Yo, Iceman," Ray knocks on the door, then sticks him head in, completely ignoring Nate's presence, "if you're done with your touchy-feely welcome, Poke needs us to go over the security detail and shifts and all that boring shit. And you forgot your earpiece."

Brad didn't forget it. Brad purposefully left it in its case. There's a difference.

He wanted this first meeting to be completely private, because if he's to protect Nate, he needs Nate to trust him, and that seemed like a good point to start.

"Okay, Ray, let's go. Sir." He nods.

"Nate."

Brad weighs the word on his tongue for a while. "Nate," he finally says, pushing the handle.

* * *

The thing about Nate is, he's not at all what Brad expected him to be. He knew, of course, that Nate wasn't a spoiled brat who had too much money for his own good; people were talking, after all, and from what they were saying Brad could gather that much. But he's also seen his fair share of rich kids, and even those seemingly unspoiled by their fortune had this characteristic air about them that screamed _we belong to two completely different worlds, so stay back and remember your place_.

Nate's not like that at all.

He's down to earth, enjoys simple things, has a routine he follows every day (work-out, breakfast, catching up on his required reading at the university in the morning, even though it's summer, a run in the park in the afternoon, even if it's raining, and it's raining all the fucking time lately), and not even once does he make Brad feel like he's just a hired gun, a disposable human shield.

"Do you think I could visit Mike?" he asks one afternoon at the end of the first week they spend in Baltimore, looking out the huge window in the main living room. The rain stopped some time ago, but the air is still humid and sultry, and there are water droplets running down the glass surface, chasing after one another. "I just want to talk to him, see with my own eyes that he's okay, not just hear about it."

Brad nods from his place in the chair standing in the corner of the room. "That can be arranged. We need to clear it with the hospital, but that shouldn't be too much of a problem. We could go tomorrow if you don't have any other plans."

Nate laughs, and it comes out a bit broken. "Plans? What plans, Brad? In case you haven't noticed, I'm stuck here at my own request, because I want my mother to be able to sleep more peacefully at night. So, yes, Brad, my calendar is, for all intents and purposes, completely free."

There's something to be said about the maturity with which Nate handles this whole situation. He may be bitter and angry on the inside, but he doesn't make the mistake of misplacing the object of his anger and doesn't blame his parents when who he actually should be pissed off at are the people who created the need for tighter security in the first place with their threats.

When he goes to find Espera and tell him to take care of the logistics, Poke just shakes his head. "I thought that the main point of him being here is that he stays here," he says. "Why take unnecessary risks, dawg?"

"He wants to see Mike, and his parents don't want him to feel like he's living in a cage." Brad takes a look at the cameras monitoring all corridors, hallways and the grounds surrounding the house—everything's peaceful and quiet, with Walt and Ray patrolling outside. This place is a fortress right now. "And he isn't asking to be taken to the fucking moon, Tony. It's doable and low-risk."

"Whatever you say, dawg." Poke runs a hand up and down the curve of his shaved head. "You're the boss around here. I'll make the arrangements, let you know how it goes."

Brad nods. "Thanks, Tony. I'll see you later."

When they eventually go to see Mike, Brad stays a few steps behind, watching Nate as he puts up a brave front once again, even though his eyes keep shifting to the bandages on Mike's shoulder and arm, and every time they do, he goes back to biting his lower lip and clenching his hands, crumpling the fabric of his pants in his fists.

"Is the Iceman treating you well?" Mike asks jokingly, winking at Nate and Brad can practically see the sharp intake of breath, the way Nate's chest rises and falls. "He's the best one around here, you know, so you're in good hands, kiddo."

Nate turns his head to look at Brad, then shifts his attention back to Gunny. Brad can see the strain in his shoulders as he tries to remain calm.

"Mike, I'm so sorry, I'm so, so sorry." The dam bursts, finally, but Nate wipes furiously at his eyes, refusing to give in. "If I hadn't wanted to go there this wouldn't have happened, and you'd— I'm just so sorry."

"Hey, Nate, not your fault." Mike nudges him with his knee. "You weren't that asshole holding the gun, yeah? Don't do this to yourself, this shit ain't yours to feel guilty about."

Nate nods, biting his lip again and keeping his head down, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment at his emotional outburst.

Brad wants to give Nate some time to collect himself before they go—the thing about Nate is that he cares, maybe a bit too much for his own good, and Brad can see that this whole situation isn't easy on him. In the end, as he's waiting for Mike and Nate to finish their quiet conversation, he winds up staring at the wall—it's white, just like everything else in this place, white and sterile.

Brad fucking hates hospitals.

"Hey, Gunny, your wife's here." Ray opens the door and sticks his head in. "And your kids, too."

Nate jumps to his feet. "I should probably go," he says. "I hope I'll see you soon, Mike. Just… get better, okay?"

"I will, kiddo." Mike smiles. "You take care, too, you hear me?"

They're almost out the door when Mike says, "Brad."

Brad turns around to look at him, and Gunny's expression tells him everything there is to tell. "I know," he says. "Copy that, loud and clear."

Nate is quiet on the ride back home, looking out the window for the whole time. Ray, who may be a colossal pain in the ass in general, but is also one hell of a driver, Brad thinks as the car glides smoothly along the highway, tries to start a conversation a few times, but it dies out after a while each time and he finally gives up.

So maybe Poke was right and they shouldn't have gone, maybe it didn't help at all, only made them take unnecessary risks. But no matter what everyone else says, Brad knows that Nate is not a kid anymore, and it's no use hiding him from the world at large—that's something all those people surrounding him seem to forget sometimes. Maybe they were around him for too long to notice the almost imperceptible changes that occurred slowly over time, and they still see the young boy he was when they first met him. Brad doesn't have any point of reference in this respect, he can only see what's in front of his eyes, and what he _can_ see is most certainly not a child. Nate may be young, he may be inexperienced, he may be a bit naïve, even—true. That doesn't change the fact that he's a grown-up.

When they arrive at the residence, Walt waits until they're in the dimly lit hallway, pulls Nate away to the side and gives him a hug, whispering something into his ear. Brad observes it from the distance, feeling something twist and turn in his stomach.

* * *

It's raining again and the world outside looks depressing as fuck, grey and washed-out, devoid of sunlight and almost monochromatic in its darkness. It's that kind of weather that makes people rethink the necessity of getting out of bed at all.

Nate is sprawling on the couch in the living room, doodling absentmindedly in his sketchbook, and he looks equally bored and restless. So far, he tried reading, but he couldn't focus on the book, then he decided to watch a movie, but got distracted from the plot after thirty minutes and ended up turning the TV off. Finally, he brought his sketchbook and a pencil, but judging from the looks of it, that whole drawing thing is not going too well either.

Brad's in his usual place in the corner by the door, trying to read the paper, but he's feeling restless, too, and eventually gives up, settling on watching the curve of Nate's neck instead. He certainly pays a lot of attention to everything Nate does these days, maybe even a bit too much. He tries not to think about it.

"You can come closer, you know?" Nate says after a while, turning his head around to look at Brad, who feels like he's been caught doing something forbidden. "I won't bite. There's no need for you to sit on that chair, it's uncomfortable like hell, anyway, so don't even try to pretend it isn't. You don't have to keep so much distance, it doesn't bother me that you're here. You should know that by now."

Brad wants to tell him that the chair is just fine, thank you very much. But it _is_ rather fucking uncomfortable, and Brad wasn't designed to fold that way, not with his limbs as long as they are. So the next thing he knows, he finds himself on the sofa, right next to Nate, who's still sitting with his legs up, completely relaxed and unaffected by Brad's presence.

There's a fine line between involved and too attached, and Brad knows he's walking it right now. It's dangerous for both of them. This whole thing feels just a bit too domestic for his own comfort, and Brad knows better. If he's to stay useful, if he's to do what he was hired to do effectively, there must be some distance put between them and it's his job to ensure that this distance is maintained.

The thing is, Nate doesn't make it easy on him in any way. In the two weeks he spent in Baltimore, Brad has learned that Nate doesn't treat the bodyguards assigned to protect him like his employees, he treats them like his friends.

He sometimes goes out to talk with Ray and Walt when they're patrolling outside, or visits them in the briefing room when they're on duty inside the house and just chats with them for a while. He makes his own coffee and he always brings a second cup for Brad—the coffee is black and strong, just the way he likes it. He gets into long discussions on karma and spirituality in general with his personal trainer, Rudy, who comes by three times a week to teach him martial arts and stays longer than he's being paid to, just because he likes people and enjoys talking with Nate.

And sometimes Nate does something small, insignificant in the grand scheme of things, like throwing Brad a fresh towel after they come back from the afternoon run before getting one for himself, or leaving a book he thinks Brad might be interested in where he can find it without having to go through the whole extensive library, and Brad can feel something unfurling slowly in his stomach, a half-forgotten sensation that has him on his toes the second he realizes what exactly it is.

"Anything interesting happening in the big, wide world?" Nate asks, nudging Brad's thigh with his big toe. Brad looks at him for a moment, disoriented, then his gaze falls to the newspaper he's still holding.

"Not particularly," he says, putting the paper away on the table. "All is quiet on the Western front, it seems."

Nate smiles at that, then looks down on his work and throws the sketchbook away in frustration. "I wish I could be at least decent at drawing, you know?" he says, twirling the pencil between his fingers. Brad follows its movement with his eyes. "I've always liked to do it, but it doesn't mean I'm any good, unfortunately."

Brad picks up the sketchbook, then stares at the drawing for a moment before returning it to Nate. "Yeah, you're right. This is pretty much shit," he says with a grin. "But don't let it keep you from trying. I figure there must be a reason behind all that _practice makes perfect_ bullshit."

Nate leans in and shoves Brad playfully. "I can have you fired if you keep insulting my artistic skills, just so you know," he says in a serious tone, his face completely straight, like every time he's confronted with one of Ray's rants, but Brad can see that he's laughing on the inside.

He wants to see Nate laugh more often, not only on the inside, but on the outside, too. He knows he shouldn't want things like that.

He can't help it.

* * *

"So, how do you like your adventures in babysitting, Brad?" Ray asks when Brad joins them in the briefing room (which has actually surprisingly little to do with the actual briefing, but the name somehow stuck) after Nate goes to sleep.

"How do you like getting wet and dirty outside?" Brad shoots right back.

"Hey, as long as I'm getting wet and dirty with Walt, I'm not complaining." Ray wiggles his eyebrows, grinning suggestively. He probably thinks it's cute. It isn't.

Walt sighs. "Ray, get your mind out of the gutter."

"He just says that now, but he loves me," Ray drawls, patting Walt on the knee. Walt gives him a pointed look, but he doesn't shy away from the touch. Interesting. "Seriously, though, homes, how's the life of domestic bullshit working out for you? Missing the action? Bored as fuck already? We know you weren't born to fucking play house, so come on, you can let it out, we won't tell anyone how much you hate this shit."

"It's not that bad."

Ray stares at him openly. Walt is only a bit more covert in his staring.

"So what, Brad, you want to tell me that you suddenly found the perfect housewife to play house with, is that it?" Brad shrugs. Ray flails madly, looking appalled. It's actually scary when you think about the fact that this man is one of the best security detail specialists in the business. "Walt, I think we should get reinforcements and take this motherfucker down, 'cause it's not the Brad Colbert I know and love, he's, like, some fucking evil twin or something."

"Ray?" Brad gives him an exasperated look. "Shut the fuck up."

"Oh, it's great to know that _some_ things don't change."

They all turn their heads at the sound of Poke rapping on the door. "Yo, dawg, come check it out," he says, urging Brad outside. He leads him to the window facing the front of the house and points to something. There are faint lights out in the distance, flickering in the dark. "What do you think? A car?"

Brad looks at the lights for a moment. "Could be. Or two people on motorbikes, too far to tell for sure without the night optics. I checked the AO before I first came here, there are no other houses further that way, so whatever the fuck they're doing here has something to do with us. Take Ray and Walt with you, go check it out. Have Lilley stay and watch the cameras in case something happens and they come closer. I'm going for Nate."

He climbs the stairs in silence, taking two at a time, swift and alert. Nate's room is on the second floor, first corridor right, third door to the left. Brad doesn't knock before he comes in. No time and no reason.

Inside, Nate is sleeping soundly, breathing through his slightly open mouth, and he stirs in his sleep when the light coming from the corridor falls onto his face. Brad closes the door with a quiet click. It's enough for Nate to wake up.

"What's wrong?" he asks, pushing himself up on his elbows and in the moonlight coming through the window Brad can see the rapid rise and fall of his chest. "Brad, what's going on?"

"Don't know yet. Possibly nothing, but we need to make sure." There's no reason for him to sugarcoat the situation, he knows Nate would prefer to hear the truth instead of a placatory load of bullshit. "We spotted some vehicles coming this way, Poke, Walt and Ray are checking it outside."

Nate throws the covers aside and gets up. He has only his pajama bottoms on, and Brad feels strangely overdressed in his suit, with his tie still in place, the knot tight around his neck. He loosens it a bit.

"Stay away from the window," Brad says when he sees Nate take a step in that direction. He laughs, turning to look at Brad.

"What, you suspect there might be snipers hidden in the trees, aiming at me right now, too?" Nate shakes his head, turning around slowly with his arms raised. "See? No red dots. You can come check for yourself."

Brad swallows around the lump in his throat. "Just stay away from the window."

"Okay." Nate returns to his bed and lies down with his hands behind his head, but he doesn't cover himself up, his duvet discarded on the other side of the mattress. "How long do you think it's going to take?"

"Shouldn't be too long. They know how to do their job. You can go back to sleep, I'll wake you up if something happens."

Nate shakes his head. "I wouldn't be able to fall asleep anyway, not right now. But I could go and fix myself a cup of tea if that's okay."

Brad assesses the situation for a moment. There are no windows on the staircase, they wouldn't be too exposed even if there _were_ snipers somewhere in the trees, though Brad is pretty certain there are none. Something would've shown up on the cameras, and they keep the security as tight as possible.

"Fine. Let's go."

In the kitchen, Brad stands directly behind Nate, right between him and the huge window. Just in case he's wrong.

"Lilley, how's everything going?" he asks over the comms.

"Everything clear. Still waiting for a sit-rep from Poke."

"Roger that. Keep me informed." He turns his attention back to Nate, who's holding not one, but two cups in his hands. Figures. "If you're done, let's get you somewhere where you'll look less like a target, shall we? Come on."

They end up in the briefing room, because Nate apparently doesn't care, and it's a safe place to be in right now. Lilley gives them a curious look, staring at Nate as he passes one of the mugs to Brad, but it takes just one raised eyebrow from Brad for him to go back to work.

"Brad, there's nothing, no activity anywhere that I could see," he says after a while. "Come, take a look."

"Lilley, I trust you to do your job and do it well. If you say there's no suspicious activity outside, then I assume that I can rely on your assessment of the situation." Brad doesn't move from his seat. "Still waiting on that sit-rep from Poke?"

"Yeah, they should have something by now."

Brad looks at his watch. It's half past one, they've been out there for about twenty minutes. A moment later he hears Poke's voice in his earpiece. "It's all clear," he says. "I repeat, all clear."

"Roger that." Brad stands up from his chair. "Get your asses back here."

They return about ten minutes later.

"Motherfuckers," Brad hears Ray spit out with venom the minute they step inside. "What the fuck is wrong with the youth of today, homes, really? What happened to making out and giving blowjobs in the parking lots? Who the fuck drives so far out just to have his girlfriend suck his dick, seriously?"

"What?" Behind Brad, Lilley snorts. "You gotta be kidding me, bro."

"I can't even…" Ray shakes his head vehemently, gesturing wildly with his hands. He's soaking wet and Brad hasn't seen him this pissed off in a long time. "That car Poke and Brad saw? Those were some fucking horny teenagers looking for some action out in the open, away from their uptight conservative church-attending God-abiding parents. Jesus fucking Christ, it was so much less complicated back in the days of my youth. Get a car, get a chick or a guy, get some privacy, get your dick out and be done with it. It's not a fucking rocket science, for fuck's sake."

"So many things I never wanted to know," Walt deadpans from where he's standing in the corner of the room. He has his jacket off already and he's trying to get the rain out of his hair, sending a spray of water all over the place.

Nate looks at Ray with a mix of utter amazement and utter disbelief at the same time. Brad wonders if he's ever even had the opportunity to make out with a girl in the backseat of a car in the first place. He doesn't think so.

"Ray, a word," he says, gesturing with his head to the side. Ray obediently follows. "While I realize that it's a huge thing to ask from you, all things considered, could you at least try and watch your tongue around the people you're working for? There is such thing as too much information," Brad continues in a lowered voice.

"I don't mind, really," Nate chips in with a small smile; he's still sitting in his chair, looking completely at ease. And he has twenty-twenty hearing, too, it would seem.

"See? He doesn't mind." Ray grins, then turns on his heel and exits the room, leaving a wet trail in his wake.

"You should get some rest," Brad says, turning to look at Nate, who tries to stifle a yawn.

"So should you. You look tired, Brad. How long has it been since you had a good night's sleep? Go to bed, I'll still be alive and well when you wake up."

Brad stares after Nate as he walks away, his eyes fixed on that spot between his shoulder blades where he can see the muscles shifting under Nate's skin with his every move.

"Go wake up Pappy," he says to Walt. "I'm gonna get some shut-eye."

* * *

He ends up being unable to fall asleep. Back when he was in the Corps, he could sleep anywhere, anytime, usually for no longer than an hour at a time, while the mortars were lightning up the sky above his head. Civilian life didn't make him soft, by any means, but he'd lost that ability to fall asleep in an instant somewhere along the way. Just a small thing. One of those that make all the difference.

There's tension in his shoulders, in his back, this annoying kink that won't go away no matter how hard he tries to relax his muscles against the soft, but not too soft mattress he's lying on. In the end he gives up on sleep that won't come and pads to the bathroom which he has all to himself, courtesy of the housekeeper (or Nate, or both), thinking that maybe a hot shower will soothe the ache in his muscles, relieve the tension. He feels at the same time boneless and stiff, tired and restless, and maybe just a bit horny, just like he used to feel in the theater after a successful mission.

Once he's under the scorching hot spray, he braces himself against the tiled wall and wraps a hand around himself, stroking slowly, giving the tension time to build up until he can barely keep his eyes open and his mouth closed. It's not the polite thing to do while in someone else's guest bathroom, but contrary to the popular belief, he's in fact human and that means he has his needs.

He's almost there when he finally gives in and closes his eyes, allowing himself to let go of all the inhibitions he imposed on his own imagination.

He doesn't even think about his mouth (so predictable and cheap, really); he thinks about his hands, his long, slender fingers, about the column of his neck, arched over a book bound in leather, about clear green eyes that seem too innocent and too old at the same time, and he comes with a muffled groan, biting his lip and with his eyes screwed shut.

 _Fuck_.

He's so fucked, and Jesus Christ, when did that happen?

Brad turns the hot water off, turns the cold water on and stands under the spray with his fists against the slick tiles.

He knows that he needs to get it under control or quit. There's no other option.

* * *

Brad manages to get three full hours of sleep before he wakes up at six in the morning, just like he does every other day. He'd like to pretend that what happened in the shower was just a dream that got mixed up with reality somehow, but he knows that it was real, that this strange, suffocating feeling inside him is still just as real as the feel of the soft, white sheets he's gripping in his fists.

Once he's in the bathroom, he splashes some cold water on his face to help him clear his thoughts and stares in the mirror for a while, looking at his reflection, which seems oddly unfamiliar in the warm glow of the ceiling lamp. There are dark circles under his eyes—that's almost exactly what he looked like when he saw himself in the mirror for the first time after coming back from Iraq, only then he was unnaturally hollow-cheeked, too. Being on one meal a day for a longer period of time does that to you.

There's a noise coming from his room and Brad quickly walks out of the bathroom to find Nate standing by the door, still shirtless, but already in his running shoes and black sweats, and Brad can see the damp spots on his skin where he didn't towel off properly after his shower.

Well, he chose one hell of a time to be a fucking tease.

Nate finally puts his t-shirt on, thank fucking God, and then he throws Brad his own USMC shirt that's been hanging over the armrest of a chair—it's faded and a bit frayed at the seams, but Brad still wears it when he's working out or running, like a sentiment he can't let go of, at least not completely. _Semper fi_ , it seems.

"Come on," Nate urges him on. "We're going out for a run."

He looks well-rested and fresh-faced even though it's still so early and he couldn't catch more than four hours of sleep, and Jesus, how many millionaire kids wake up at six in the fucking morning if they don't have to? How many people _in general_ wake up at six in the fucking morning if they don't have to, really?

Well, Brad does sometimes when he's back home in California and the waves are good, but that's another story.

Outside, they set up a steady pace and turn left, into the maze of white gravel paths wide enough for two people to walk—or run—comfortably side by side.

"What happened to the morning work-out session?" Brad asks when they're about a mile in. (They run five, sometimes six miles every day, in addition to the time Nate spends at the gym, and it's nothing compared to what Brad used to do in the Corps, but then again, this isn't the Corps and Nate is a civilian, and for a civilian, he's in a damn good shape.)

"This morning work-out session has been postponed until the afternoon. I needed to clear my head."

"Everything all right?" he asks before he can stop himself. He's Nate's bodyguard, not his therapist, for God's sake. Pep talk is not included in his job description.

Nate shakes his head. "It's nothing. Just… too many thoughts."

They run the rest of the distance in silence, letting the warm drizzle soak through their clothes, get to the skin underneath and leave it damp and clammy.

It's raining a lot these days, and it doesn't seem like it's going to stop any time soon. Brad doesn't mind getting wet. He hates heat and dust more.

Once they're back inside, Nate seems to be a bit breathless, even though Brad could still run for miles and miles, but then he remembers—there's a wall of difference between them, built with bricks of experiences that are virtually poles apart, leaving them with nothing to share.

They're sitting in the kitchen, eating breakfast (it's Nate's idea; he says he doesn't like huge, empty rooms, and the kitchen, while equally big, is more warm and welcoming than the dining room) when Nate suddenly says, "I've been thinking about joining the Marines. My—"

"Don't."

"What?" Nate narrows his eyes. Brad puts the fork away and shoves his chair away from the table.

"Don't do it."

Nate shakes his head in disbelief, and there's something else in his eyes. Hurt, maybe. "You think I'm not strong enough to do it, right? Too much of a liberal, sheltered delicate flower to survive the training and combat?"

"You're strong enough, all right. You'd do just fine. But the military doesn't like idealists too much, and the idealists find that they don't like it in the military after all. You'd come back disillusioned and bitter, and for what?" He knows he sounds angry, but he can see it a bit too clearly for his comfort—Nate as a young officer, trying to do the right thing and failing thanks to the infinite retardation of the command, being stripped of his illusions, one at a time, until there's nothing left.

"You were a Marine, right?" Nate asks after a brief pause.

"I am a Marine. You don't just stop being a Marine, no amount of paperwork can do that to you."

"And you served in Iraq?"

Brad laughs and it surprises even him, how bitter it sounds. "And look what a fucking load of good it did to everyone."

Nate looks at him, and Brad can almost see the question forming on the tip of his tongue.

"They say we liberated them. Bullshit. We just fucked them up, shot a few innocent kids in the process, got some of the boys killed thanks to the retarded decisions made by the higher-ups and left their country a fucking mess. Enjoy your fucking fruits of democracy." Brad shakes his head at Nate, who looks at him with disbelief on his face. "Don't look at me like that. You weren't there. You don't know."

"Is that why you left?" Nate asks, managing to completely surprise Brad. He expected idealistic speeches about democracy and human rights and freedom and a lot of other crap, not this. Once again he underestimated Nate.

"That was not what I signed up for. I couldn't go on like this."

They leave it at that; Nate doesn't pry, even though Brad can tell he's curious why Iraq fucked him up that bad, worse than Afghanistan, worse than any other deployment in his entire career. He overhears him later, though, talking to Walt, who's sitting alone in the briefing room, keeping an eye on the cameras. What he hears makes him stop, hidden in the shadow where neither of them can see him.

"Do you know what happened in Iraq?" Nate asks. "Why Brad left the Corps? He wouldn't tell me, not really."

Walt shrugs, looking at his fingers, then back at Nate.

"I don't know the whole story," he says, "but Ray and Poke served with Brad in Iraq before they ended up working together again in security, and from what they told me… a lot happened. The officers weren't prepared for that kind of combat and some of them were total idiots on top of that. Poke said it was a clusterfuck. Lots of mistakes, some Iraqi kids died because they declared everyone hostile, there were many civilian casualties, far too many. And there was this kid, Trombley, he was on Brad's team. It was his first deployment, he had a fiancée and a kid on the way, and Ray said he was a psycho. Like, a sociopath or something. He would do the craziest shit sometimes, like, coming out from behind the berm while the mortars were trying to light them up to hell and back again, just to stand there and be closer to the fire. They all thought he was fucked in the head. And then he got killed. Brad thinks it was his fault, but it wasn't. Doesn't stop Brad from blaming himself, right?"

"I guess not."

Walt rubs his forehead absentmindedly, taking another look at the cameras. When he speaks once again, he doesn't sound like someone his age at all. "You gotta understand, for someone like Brad, who has the Corps in his blood, the decision to leave must've been one of the toughest ones he's ever made. It's no wonder he doesn't like talking about it. Especially when you stop to think about the reasons."

"I'm not going to say that I understand when I so obviously even can't begin to comprehend what that must've been like for him, but… but I get why he wouldn't want to share this with anyone. Thanks, Walt," he adds, standing up from his chair. "Thanks for not blowing me off and not treating me like a clueless kid."

Walt smiles, a wide, genuine smile that goes all the way up to his eyes, then puts a hand on Nate's shoulder in a friendly gesture, and Brad understands why Ray might be a bit head over heels for that guy.

* * *

Nate usually calls his mother two-three times a week, just to catch up and talk. Brad, who's not used to talking to the members of his family so often, is at first a bit surprised, but then again, Nate is really close with his parents, so maybe he shouldn't be. With Brad, the infrequent phone conversations started out as a necessity of war that turned into a routine, one that was easy to follow and convenient. Mutual expectations never raised above an occasional call every now and then, just to make sure everything's all right and get an update. Real conversations were reserved for those rare occasions when they could see each other face to face. They still are.

"I'm fine," Brad hears one afternoon when he comes back to the living room after a short conversation with Poke. Nate's standing by the window overlooking the park and talking on the phone. "A bit bored, maybe, but I do my best to keep myself entertained."

On the other end of the line, Barbara Fick says something and Nate laughs.

"Yeah, that too. Hey, mom, don't you know by any chance if… if she's back? I've been trying to reach her and all I get is the voicemail." A brief pause. "Right. That's what I thought. So she's still in Paris. I figured there's probably an issue with her phone, since she wouldn't call me back, not even once. Just sent me a text after they landed." Another pause, longer this time. "Yeah, okay. Thanks, mom. Sure, that would be great." A smile. "You too. Bye."

Brad wants to ask if everything's all right, but he knows that it's none of his goddamn business, so he just observes as Nate opens his laptop and starts typing. He stops a few times to think and every time he does, there's a tiny furrow forming between his eyes. After a while Nate puts the notebook away and runs a hand down his face, sighing. Brad can see that he's frustrated for some reason.

"Hey, Brad, do you want—" Nate starts all of a sudden, then trails off even more abruptly. "You know, never mind."

Brad is still watching him from above the screen of his own laptop he's currently upgrading (he extended the same courtesy to Nate's own notebook after he accidentally stumbled upon that mess Nate was calling an operating system. So there were still people who used Internet Explorer, even though no one put a gun to their head and forced them to do it. Who would've thought, the levels of human retardation _are_ indeed infinite).

"Nate."

"It was nothing, I assure you. Just a stupid thought."

A part of Brad wants to know what Nate was thinking. The other, more sensible part of him believes that maybe he's better off not knowing. And then there's yet another part of him that wants to kiss Nate senseless until he forgets everything that's on his mind. Brad tries to shove that particular part of him deep, all the way down to the back of his head, but then again, that nagging voice in the back of the head is usually the one that's most difficult to silence.

* * *

"Homes, have you heard the news?" Ray asks him on Monday. "The girlfriend is coming. And the mother."

Brad frowns. "Her mother?"

"No, Brad. _The_ Mother," Ray says like it's the most obvious thing under the sun. "As in, Mrs. Fick. She's coming to visit. The girlfriend is staying, though. At least for a while. I heard that she's some fucking hot piece of ass, no wonder our little Nate wanted to tap it and then put a ring on it." For one quick as a heartbeat moment Brad can't see or hear, just a noise in his ears, like the static on the comms. "Well, figuratively speaking. They didn't seal the deal, but they've been dating for years, so at their age it could as well be the whole eternity."

"Ray," Brad starts, closing his eyes, "as much as I'd love to stay and chat, and then maybe braid your hair once we're finished or paint your fingernails if you feel like it, I'm not some fucking Cosmo-reading fifteen-year-old girl, so you better stop yapping and get back to work."

"Christ, Brad, did you get up on the wrong side of bed today or what? No need to be so snappy, homes."

"Whatever, Ray. When are they supposed to arrive?"

"Today, late in the afternoon. Kocher's coming with them."

Nate goes for his daily run all the same. It's a fairly sunny afternoon—a rare occurrence these days—even though you can still smell rain in the air, but it's brisk rather than sweltering, which is actually a nice change. The temperature has dropped a few degrees and Brad inhales deeply as he runs side by side with Nate.

They head back after a while and by the time they reach the driveway, the car is already there, Kocher standing by the passenger door while the housekeeping staff is bringing the suitcases into the house.

"Ma'am," he says politely, trying to get his breathing under control.

"Mr. Colbert." She nods, giving him a small smile, and then turns to face her son. "Nate," her voice is softer, without the sharp, steel edge that's usually there when she's talking to other people. Brad observes her and sees the relief on her face, like she couldn't quite believe that Nate was alive and well until she's seen it with her own eyes.

"Ray, Walt," Brad orders quietly, pointing his head towards the newly arrived guests. Then he goes to talk to Kocher. "How's the situation progressing?"

Eric just shakes his head, his expression somber and exasperated. "So far the police didn't do a fucking thing to catch those bastards sending threats to the Ficks. They had some leads, but no proof. We're back to square one."

"Any new threats?"

"All's been quiet so far, and, frankly, I don't like it, Brad. It's a bit too quiet, I think. And here?"

Brad smiles with the corner of his mouth. "We had a couple of horny teenagers who thought the woods nearby would be the perfect make-out spot and were sorely disappointed when Poke, Ray and Walt appeared with their guns and told them to kindly fuck off and get the hell out of there. Other than that, nothing out of the ordinary."

"You're going to have your hands full now, with the girlfriend around and everything."

That's something Brad doesn't really want to think about, at least not right now.

"You staying?" he asks instead.

"No, I'm heading back with Mrs. Fick later in the evening."

"So she's not staying the night?"

Kocher shakes his head. "No. They need her back in D.C. in the morning."

"Any word on how long the girlfriend is going to be here?"

Eric raises his eyebrows. Brad doesn't move a muscle.

"Don't know," Kocher says, "they were talking about a week, maybe two, but you know how that is with those privileged kids. Change their minds all the time. Any way the wind blows."

Nate's not like that, Brad wants to say, but he stays silent. Kocher wouldn't understand, not like Brad does now. Maybe Mike would, but Gunny's at home now, going through intensive PT sessions.

Nate eats dinner with his mother and his girlfriend in the dining room, and it feels completely different from the easy, casual mood they set over the days spent together at the house—it's more formal, more distant. Brad keeps out of the way, doing his best to make sure that he's close enough, but not too close, that everything's appropriate and professional. (He realizes that there's nothing appropriate or professional about the relationship he has with Nate, at least not on his part, but as long as he keeps his feelings under control and is able to do his job, maybe he won't have to leave.)

Nate glances at him over his girlfriend's head a few times over the course of the meal, like he's looking for something he expects to find in Brad's face, but Brad keeps his expression carefully blank.

"How's he doing?" Barbara Fick approaches Brad after the dinner is over, while Nate and his girlfriend finally have a moment to themselves.

"He's fine, ma'am. He understands the gravity of the situation and doesn't try to be a rebel without a cause if that's what you're worried about. I've never seen someone his age act this mature. And the security is tight, you can rest assured. He's taken care of."

"I know, Mr. Colbert. I wouldn't expect anything less from you. I meant it on a more personal level." She gives him a small smile. "You seem to have bonded, and he speaks very fondly of you. I know he was rather emotionally attached to Mr. Wynn, and it's not that surprising, considering that they spent almost three years together, but he seems to be coping well with the change."

Brad nods. "He's fine, ma'am, really. In every possible meaning of the word."

"Good. I hope he won't be so lonely, now that he has some company to keep him away from his books. And thank you again Mr. Colbert. For everything."

She leaves at ten, escorted by Kocher back to D.C., and then there's only Nate, his girlfriend and Brad left in the living room that suddenly feels a bit too small despite its vastness.

"I'll be waiting outside," Brad tells them dryly and heads out the door.

"Brad, no, I—" Nate turns around to meet Brad's gaze, and he can see something strange in his eyes, an expression he can't decipher. That's a first one with Nate; he's usually pretty easy to read, his face like an open book, honest and trusting. But it's too late, Brad's already out of the room, so all he needs to do is turn his back to Nate and go wait somewhere nearby, where he's going to have a good entry point in case something happens. He ends up sitting in the hall on a chair standing by the wall, trying hard not to listen.

The thing is, Sandy is beautiful, all legs and tanned skin, slim and tall while she certainly doesn't fit into size zero or look like she's some underage wannabe model snorting cocaine and starving herself just to get thinner, and it's no wonder that she attracted Nate's attention in the first place. Brad wants to hate her, too, it would be so much easier if he did, but he can't, because she seems to be genuinely nice and intelligent, and that's something Brad certainly values in people, in the infinite ocean of retardation that surrounds him from all sides.

He knows he's fighting a losing battle the moment he has to close his eyes to stop himself from picturing what must be happening in the living room. He can hear them when they're talking, and when they're not talking… well, it's not like Brad wouldn't know.

Ray passes right by his spot at some point and raises his eyebrows, opening his mouth to say something, but then he apparently thinks better of it and gives Brad a small, sad smile instead. It's good to know that Person can act like an actual human being from time to time.

Brad can hear Sandy laugh at something Nate said and then there's the sound of footsteps coming his way, the unmistakable click of high heels against the hardwood floor; he's up and running before they come out of the living room. Once in the hallway, Sandy takes her shoes off, one hand propped against Nate's chest for balance, and scoops them up in one hand, sighing contentedly.

"They might be comfortable, but there _is_ such a thing as too much time spent in stilettos," she says. "Jesus, my feet are killing me."

"Is that an elaborate ploy to get me to rub them for you?" Nate asks with a straight face, even though Brad can see the hint of a smile waiting to break out.

"Oh, shut up." Sandy punches him in the arm playfully. "But since you suggested that yourself…"

"I knew it. Do something once and then it's all work and no play for you," he deadpans, then seems to remember that Brad's still there, waiting, and he turns to face him, but Brad won't meet his eyes. "We're going to—" he starts, then trails off, making a vague gesture in the general direction of the staircase.

Brad understands. His services are no longer required. "Of course," he says, nodding stiffly, and Nate gives him a surprised look, like he's not sure why Brad's acting this way. The truth is, his years in the military and then the subsequent Secret Service training had drilled things like propriety, boundaries and professionalism into him, and Brad's nothing if not professional. (He knows that's not entirely true, not in this case, but it's just a small oversight, small enough to ignore if needed.)

He could stay downstairs, join Walt and Ray in the briefing room and send Pappy or Poke upstairs to change him, because he doesn't know if he can do that right now—the whole Iceman routine where he's completely calm, distanced but focused at the same time and it feels nothing can touch him—but what he knows for sure is that he couldn't walk away even if he wanted to. It's not only about the sense of duty instilled into him, it's also about wanting something so desperately that he _needs_ to torture himself like that to keep himself from wanting it even more. He needs to have something to convince at least his brain that it's pointless and stupid, and it's just not fucking going to happen, period, end of story.

So he goes upstairs, to his room that happens to be just next to Nate's and lies down on his bed, knowing that only one row of bricks and some plaster hidden under the wallpaper separates him from what he wants, more than anything he can remember, more than joining the Corps, more than getting out of the Corps, more than he's ever wanted Jess in the first place, and up to this point he'd thought she was the fucking love of his life.

The walls are a bit too thin for his comfort.

* * *

  
He doesn't expect Nate to be up too early the next day, not when there's his girlfriend curled up next to him in his bed and he could be having, at least in theory, great, lazy morning sex, but he knocks on Brad's door at six thirty sharp and opens it after hearing a short, clipped, "Come in."

"You up for a run?" Nate asks, trying to smile, and there's uncertainty in his voice, like he doesn't know what to do with this new, distant Brad. Good. That gives him at least a semblance of control over the situation.

"Sure. Give me a minute."

The routine has changed recently—now it's a five-mile run in the morning and then workout or training with Rudy in the afternoon. Nate says that running first thing after waking up helps him clear his thoughts. Brad doesn't ask what thoughts are these.

It's raining again this morning, and even though Brad doesn't mind rain that much on principle, this is getting fucking ridiculous. The local media have already officially named this summer the season of rain and it more than lives up to its reputation.

"What's wrong, Brad?" Nate asks as soon as they're out of the house. "Did something happen? Did I do something?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," he deflects. It's a feeble excuse and he will probably get called on his bullshit, but it doesn't stop him from trying.

"Brad." There it goes.

"I thought it would be best if we kept our relationship strictly professional, especially now that we're not alone anymore," Brad explains, increasing the pace slightly, so that he gets a bit ahead of Nate. He catches up with him after a moment.

"Brad, there wasn't anything even remotely inappropriate or unprofessional about our relationship. Unless you think that the fact that I consider you to be a friend is unprofessional. But I—"

Brad can barely breathe as he opens his mouth to answer him, but he needs to get those words out. "I'm your bodyguard, Nate. An employee. I'm being paid to spend my time with you. I think you just got confused."

He hates himself so much in that moment, and he fucking hates that look in Nate's eyes, full of hurt and betrayal, but he knows he needs to push him away or else this would end in a disaster. Nate halts abruptly, forcing Brad to stop as well, and he looks like he's fighting back tears.

"So this is how it's going to be now," he says, letting out a shaky laugh which sounds so desperate that Brad can't bear to hear it. "If that is what you want, all right. Is it?"

Brad wants to say _no_ , Jesus, he wants to say _no_ and kiss Nate so much that it hurts, but he nods instead. That's going to be for the best for everyone involved.

Nate turns around and runs away. Brad runs after him.

Maybe it has ended in a disaster anyway.

* * *

His coffee is still waiting for him on the kitchen table, hot and black and strong, just the way he likes it, and he knows it was Nate who left it for him—Mrs. Jenkins, the housekeeper, apparently still can't figure out that there's a difference between strong and tastebud-burning. But Nate is nowhere to be seen. Just as Brad's about to head out, Sandy comes in and shoots him a look.

"He's upstairs, but I wouldn't go in there if I were you. I don't know what you did to upset him so much, but right now he's oscillating somewhere between furious and crying, so give him a moment, okay?" she says.

"I have job to do," is all Brad says before heading upstairs.

"I don't think I want to see you right now," Nate tells him when he stands in the doorway.

Brad knows he's made a mistake—his aim was to distance himself from Nate, but at the same time Brad realizes that he can't afford to alienate him, since he needs Nate to be able trust him, and fuck, this is going to be hell.

"Fair enough," he says in a strangled voice. "I just wanted to let you know that it's not like that. I _do_ think of you as a friend, Nate, but I can't _think_ about it when I'm working. It's bad to be too close. It fucks with your perspective. I hope you can understand that."

Nate nods, then turns away from Brad, facing the window. It looks like they're finished for now.

Nate spends the whole morning and a good part of the afternoon buried in the library, reading _Iliad_ and making notes. Brad stands close by, but out of Nate's line of sight. Sandy is somewhere downstairs with her laptop, replying to her emails or whatever; when Nate said he needed to catch up on his compulsory reading for the next semester, she laughed, shook her head, told him that she wasn't going to stay there and distract him, kissed him on top of his head and left.

It's good to know that Nate and Sandy are not one of those completely co-dependent couples, who, once they get together, can't leave each other's presence except for those brief moments when they need to use the bathroom. It's pathetic, like they stop being separate human beings and always need that second person to help them define themselves. No one should be that dependent on another individual, ever, because when that person leaves (and they always do, sooner or later), you end up being fucked up for life.

Even if it's a bit odd that Nate and Sandy don't spend more time together, considering that they haven't seen each other for about a month, Brad doesn't give it too much thought. Maybe once you've been with someone for so long (and four years is a very long time, especially when you stop to think about how young they still are; Brad sometimes forgets about it), you start to act differently around each other, giving each other more personal space and it can still work. Brad wouldn't know—he wasn't home most of the time and then Jess decided she didn't want to wait for him anymore. It happens, apparently. Brad still can't figure out why it had to happen with his best friend, though, but maybe that's just life for you.

"Rudy's coming by this afternoon," Nate says at some point, lifting his head to look at Brad, but he can't see him, not from his spot by the desk, even though Brad can still see him perfectly. "I thought maybe you'd want to join us."

He knows it's a peace offering, even though Nate shouldn't be the one making amends; his training sessions with Rudy are private, just the two of them behind the closed door and no one else to see or hear them. Brad doesn't have to worry about Nate having no protection during that time—he's almost convinced Rudy isn't human, but he probably _is_ bulletproof. Brad's not easily impressed most of the time, but Rudy manages to impress him a great deal, actually.

"If you don't mind. It's been a while since I had a sparring partner, I could use some practice."

That's a lie, they spar regularly with Poke or sometimes with Walt after hours, if they're free and not tired enough to drop face-first into their pillows just to be asleep within minutes. But with Rudy it's different, he's a challenge.

"So, Brad, what's with the lovers' quarrels?" Ray asks him as he heads downstairs, trailing after Nate, who finally wrapped up his academic overzealousness for the day and decided to rejoin his girlfriend in the living room.

"What the hell are you talking about, Ray?" He doesn't mean to sound so defensive, really, he doesn't.

"Oh, come on, don't think we haven't noticed. Poke and I actually _were_ in Recon, too, you know, and that means we're perceptive motherfuckers, and Walt could've been a Marine just as well for what it's worth. That boy is one wicked professional."

Brad rolls his eyes, sighing. "Yeah, yeah, any time you decide to stop writing odes to Hasser's ass and his porn star tongue and get to the fucking point, feel free."

"Oh, you think you have everyone fooled, don't you, Brad?" Ray puts his hands on his hips, apparently going for _intimidating_. It would work better if he didn't have to crane his neck just to look Brad in the eyes. "We've seen Nate after he came from his run. His unusually short run. See what I'm getting at, homes? Whatever you did, get on your knees and fucking apologize before he decides he doesn't like your stupid ass after all. Or you could get on your knees and do something else, whatever works, homes, I'm not gonna judge. Just fix it. You know it's bad when the person you're supposed to protect doesn't even trust you. You're fucked. And then we're fucked, too. Besides, I don't write odes to Walt's ass or tongue. I write odes to his freaking amazing competence, there's a difference. You wouldn't even believe what a turn-on that is."

Brad's fucked anyway. "Thank you for this invaluable insight into the matter, Ray, and for the daily dose of too much information. Your help is, as always, greatly appreciated. You can go away now, harass Walt or whatever it is that you usually do when I'm not around. I've got it covered."

After that, the afternoon goes on in a rather uneventful manner, with Nate and Sandy curled up on the couch, watching some action flick which turns out to be so damn technically inaccurate in almost every respect that Brad has to keep himself from making snide remarks out loud. Jesus fucking Christ, those incompetent pot-smoking ass-kissing pussy movie makers just don't have a fucking clue. There's no way anyone can pull off even half of that shit they show on screen. Other than that, the movie is pretty decent, if you don't know anything about weapons or retrieval techniques or the way the CIA operates. Sandy seems to be quite interested in the plot, while Nate looks rather bored. Go figure.

Rudy arrives at five and doesn't even bat an eye when Brad follows them into the training room.

"How are you, my brother?" he asks instead, gripping Brad's hand and pulling him into a tight embrace. Brad and Rudy go way back, way before Rudy left the Marines and started his career as a personal trainer, back when he was just Fruity Rudy who used to run under the scorching sun in full gear, his backpack full of stones for the proper load, and there's unspoken understanding between them, something that's just impossible to comprehend, much less to explain.

"All squared away. I'm gonna be joining you today if you don't mind."

Brad loses his shirt, throwing it away on the pile of discarded clothes lying by the door. Nate's already stretching, warming up and Brad joins him, trying to ignore the way Nate's muscles ripple underneath his skin with his every movement. It's warm in the room and a thin layer of sweat starts to cover Brad's body after a while.

He waits then, cooling off and observing, while Nate and Rudy practice. It's not one particular style, Brad notices, but rather a mix of styles, which works rather well for Nate, at least from what he can see at the moment. There are few possible weak spots invisible for the untrained eye that Brad can easily identify and could in theory take advantage of if he was Nate's opponent, but he can also see that Nate's working with Rudy to improve his technique, so he stays silent. It's not his place to correct Nate, he's just an observer here.

"All right then," Rudy says after a while, bowing to Nate before stepping off the mat. "Brad? Would you care to change me?"

It's not what Brad expected, it wasn't supposed to turn out like that, it was Rudy that Brad was supposed to spar with, not Nate. But Nate's waiting for him, a tall figure standing out in a stark contrast with the white walls, his back straightened up, his gaze full of silent expectation and Brad finds himself padding silently towards the edge of the mat.

Nate attacks first, lashes out at him, angry but precise at the same time, and it almost, almost catches Brad unprepared, but now he's not only Brad, he's the Iceman, too, always half a step ahead, so he blocks Nate and holds him in his grip until Nate manages to free himself and tries to bring Brad to his knees in retaliation. It doesn't work and they struggle for a while, trying to make the other lose the balance. Brad has the height advantage over Nate, but it's not that much, only a couple inches, and even though he's generally a bit bigger and more muscular, Nate's not small by any means. And he's strong and fast.

Brad tries another approach, uses one of the weak spots he noticed earlier and manages to throw Nate off balance—he stumbles and falls, but immediately rolls away and is back on his feet before Brad has the chance to pin him to the mat. Nate kicks, hoping to gain some ground, but Brad uses this opportunity to grab him and bring him down, holding him in a lock as he breathes into the crook of Nate's neck. There's a trickle of sweat running down along his spine, Brad can see the little drop travelling slowly downwards and he wants to dip his head to catch it on his tongue, taste salt and Nate.

Nate struggles in Brad's hold, trying to gain the momentum to roll them around. He frees one hand and tangles his legs with Brad's, then pushes himself up and pulls forcefully until Brad's directly under him, back to chest, and then Nate turns around, somehow managing not to lose the hold on Brad. He grins, but it takes just a heartbeat for his expression to change and he focuses on one point on Brad's face, then dips his head the tiniest bit, breathing heavily, his pupils blown, licking his lips like he wants to—

Panic bubbles and erupts in Brad's chest, because, fuck, that's impossible, Jesus fucking Christ, he's losing it and seeing things. What he just saw, that wasn't real.

He uses Nate's distraction to roll them around once more so that he's on top now, pinning Nate's arms above his head, and he has to close his eyes for a moment, because he can't bear to see him like this, trusting and open, lying under him. Brad's fingers itch and he tightens the grip on Nate's wrists to keep himself from losing it completely. He breathes in, breathes out, then he opens his eyes and finds Nate staring right at him.

He doesn't know what they're doing here, exactly, but it doesn't feel like fighting anymore.

* * *

Sandy leaves on the following Tuesday, right after breakfast, barely having said goodbye. Apparently her parents need her back in D.C. Nate doesn't seem to be overly heartbroken and things go back to the way they used to be before the guests from the outside disrupted their peace and quiet.

They don't talk about what happened during that sparring session with Rudy.

And the things between them seem to be better now, too, almost the way they were before, if it weren't for the fact that Brad sometimes notices Nate looking at him with an expression he can't decipher, a strange mix of too many emotions at the same time. He doesn't know what that means and what Nate's trying to tell him, if he's trying to tell him anything at all.

Brad thought that maybe Sandy leaving for the big, wide world outside the confinements of Nate's gilded cage (whatever Nate may say about his situation, it _is_ a cage and they both know it) would bring about the inevitable crack in his façade, the need to go out and experience life pouring out like a rapid torrent. But Nate looks like he genuinely doesn't care. Brad can't understand this, so on Friday, when he sees Nate getting comfortable on the leather sofa in the living room, with Aristotle's Poetics in his lap, something inside him snaps.

"Don't you get sick of this?" he asks, and he's angry, though he doesn't even know why, exactly. Maybe he's angry on Nate's behalf. "You should be somewhere on Ibiza or wherever the fuck right now, getting drunk and clubbing with your friends, getting some with your girlfriend, not sitting here in this huge house with me, reading fucking Aristotle."

"Maybe I like it in here. With you."

Brad desperately wants it to mean nothing, because this whole thing is complicated enough as it is.

"Sandy and I broke up," Nate says after a moment, breaking the silence, and his voice sounds expectant, almost like he wants Brad to do something with that revelation.

"I'm sorry," Brad says, because that's the polite thing to do. He should know. He couldn't even count how many times he's heard that after Jess.

"No, don't be." Nate shakes his head, biting on his lower lip. "It was a mutual decision. That break-up was just a matter of time. We were completely different people back when we started dating and, I don't know, sometimes people just grow apart, I guess, no matter how cliché it might sound. And I still love her, just… not like that. Not anymore."

He should probably feel glad that life spared Nate the bitterness and disappointment of a messy break-up. Maybe he won't get completely fucked up, won't be spoiled goods.

"Brad? Aren't you going to say anything?"

 _What the fuck do you want me to say?_ , Brad wants to lash out at him, but it wouldn't be fair, because Nate is young and inexperienced and this is his first break-up from what Brad can gather—he didn't really date before Sandy and for the last four years they were together, so it's not like Nate has any past experiences to draw from. And Brad doesn't want to see him upset.

"You're not going to do anything stupid because of this, right?"

Nate looks at him with wide eyes. "I told you, Brad," he says in a strangled voice. "I'm fine. I'm just wondering if… if you're fine, too."

 _Jesus Christ…_ Brad has to close his eyes, just for as long as a heartbeat or two, because he can't see the sincerity in Nate's face and remain unaffected, he can't do this and he can't breathe. When he does, all he can smell is the scent of his old apartment back in California and the perfume Jess always used. He doesn't know what's worse.

"Brad?"

"I'm all squared away," he says, making an effort to unclench his teeth, but they both know it's a lie. Nate doesn't pry, though, and this is something Brad is grateful for, because he can't do that, he just can't, it's gone too far, ever since he managed to somehow forget who he is and let himself want just a bit too much, regardless of all the impossibilities standing between him and Nate.

He needs to get out right now, just for a moment, to clear his head away from any distractions, so he tells Walt over the comms to come to the living room to change him and goes out to the porch, where he grips the white rail so hard his knuckles go white and stays there for a while, letting the brisk air wash over him, cool off the white heat in his face and chest. He looks straight ahead, on the impeccably kept driveway and the evenly trimmed grass on a patch of lawn in the middle of dark brown gravel, on the trees drowning in the falling rain and the small puddles forming in places where earth can't take any more water.

He wonders if he just went there and let the rain drench him to the bone, seep under his skin until it's swollen and heavy, just like the earth, would it help him to wash away this feeling, to let it soak into the ground and stay there, buried beneath the grass in a shallow grave.

"Brad?" Ray opens the door and Brad can hear his footsteps, then they stop and he doesn't even have to turn his head to know that Ray is standing right beside him. "What's wrong? You're freaking me out."

"I'm in love with him," he whispers, hoping that the rain will drown out his voice. It's such an odd moment, because he doesn't do this kind of thing, he doesn't talk about what he really feels, just buries it deep inside and raises a wall around it, but maybe he just needed to say it out loud and Ray happened to be there to hear it. Or maybe he just trusts Ray that much.

"And?" Person asks cautiously, like he doesn't really see the harm in that, but doesn't want to say it out loud.

"And I can't. I shouldn't be. I should be gone. Right now, _I_ am the danger."

Ray shakes his head slowly, looking at Brad. "This is bullshit, Brad, and you know it. You're the best at what you do, there's a reason you're here right now, instead of providing security for one of the Ficks' corporate buildings. If I were you, I'd just tell him, but knowing you, you're just going to shut down completely and suffer in silence and solitude, because you're one stubborn motherfucker. But what do I know, right?" He shrugs, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Anyway, if you feel like getting it off your chest or getting thoroughly pissed after hours, you know where to find me."

Brad just nods, staring straight ahead once again, just to avoid seeing that look in Ray's eyes, the one that always appears when Ray is genuinely worried. He can't stand to be the reason for it.

* * *

They go running the next day once it clears out a bit and are there are still about three miles ahead of them when it starts drizzling again—it only takes a few minutes for it to change into a torrential downpour. The weather has been very unstable lately; now it's not just the rain, falling slowly but steadily, now there are violent storms and gusty wind bending the trees until they crack under its force.

Brad can hardly see, the water getting into his eyes, obscuring his vision, and when he looks up, there's a storm coming, dark clouds gathering on the horizon.

"We should get back," he tells Nate, pointing to the darkening sky. He looks up, then looks back at Brad and nods, wiping the rain away from his eyes.

"Race you," Nate says with a smile.

Brad follows after him.

They're both completely wet when they reach the house and they leave a trail on their way up. Nate looks over his shoulder a few times, as if to check if Brad is still just within an arm's reach.

They're just outside his room when Nate turns around and kisses Brad, pinning him to the wall. His mouth is cold and hot at the same time, soft and wet and inviting, his lips parting under Brad's touch, and Brad lets himself linger just a bit longer than he should, because he knows this is the first and the last time, and he needs to taste him, he needs to know what it feels like to have Nate, even if it's just for a fraction of a second.

And then he's pushing him away, disentangling the arms which found their way around Brad's neck.

"No, stop it. I can't…"

Nate tries to kiss him again. Brad shoves him harder and Nate stumbles, water dripping everywhere, on the floor, a few drops landing on the wall, and Jesus, the look on his face, that look when the realization finally sinks in and he can fully comprehend what's happening; when that happens, Brad has to look away, because he knows that if he sees all that hurt on Nate's face, if he sees those green eyes, now rimmed with red from the tears Nate won't let fall, he might not make it—he wants this, he wants Nate so much that he might not stop himself, even though he knows this can never be and everything else is just an illusion. Nate doesn't need that, he doesn't need him, everyone's replaceable, and Nate doesn't need to be fucked up, too.

"Brad, I—" he starts, but his voice breaks. He makes a step forward, towards Brad, then another, until Brad can see the freckles on Nate's collarbones, since he doesn't dare look up to meet his eyes. "Brad. Look at me."

He obeys, looks at Nate's face, and Jesus, he's beautiful even when he's broken.

Brad hates himself for being the one who did this to him. "I can't do this, Nate," he says and his voice doesn't shake. "You just broke up with your girlfriend, you're not thinking straight. Besides, there are other—"

Nate laughs. Brad never suspected a laugh could even sound like that. "That's what you think is happening? You think that you're my little gay experiment? Do you really think I'm that stupid?"

"I can't do this," it's stuck on repeat, like an old tape.

"Can't or won't?" Nate is angry now, pushing past the hurt and betrayal to reach something he can hold onto and survive. Brad knows the feeling.

"I can't, Nate, you need to understand, that I— You don't know what you're doing."

Nate narrows his eyes. "And who the fuck gave you the right to decide what's best for me?"

There's something aching in Brad's chest, pulling his lungs in painfully just to pull them apart with every exhale, like there's a steel collar constricting them. Nate looks at him and wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. And then he runs.

Brad is right behind him, but Nate is fast and he can't catch him in time.

"Nate, stop! Nate!"

It's too late. He's already running down the stairs and into the hall. There are only a few steps separating him from the front door.

It's still pouring outside and the air smells of ozone, the dark sky full of bolts of lightning chased by the low rumble of thunder. Nate chose one hell of a time to run away.

Brad finds him after five minutes, nearly bent in half under a rowan tree, limp like a ragdoll, like he has no fight left in him.

"Nate," he says, pleading. And Brad Colbert doesn't _plead_. But this is different.

Nate looks up at him, straightening up, and it seems like he's about to take off again. Brad catches him by the wrist. Nate struggles to free himself, but it's only half-hearted, like he doesn't really want to get away. Brad eventually lets him go, saying, "Nate, come on."

"Fuck you!" Nate screams over the noise of the storm, his face white and his lips forming a thin line, and it's almost an earth-shattering experience, because Brad's never seen him like that, he didn't even know Nate was capable of sounding like that, like he's furious and utterly wrecked at the same time. "Fuck you, Brad Colbert!"

He punches Brad in the chest, knocking the wind out of him, then he punches again and again, and Brad just stands there with his eyes closed, taking it, because it's the least he can do.

"Nate," he whispers in a hoarse, broken voice, unable to even look at him, "please, just go back inside. Please."

Neither of them moves.

"I expected—" Nate starts after they stand facing each other for a moment, than trails off and shakes his head. "I don't even know what I expected from you. But certainly not this. I thought that maybe— Never mind."

He turns in the direction of the house and starts walking, his shoulders slouched, his head down and Brad swallows around the lump in his throat that won't disappear before following him back inside. He feels a dull ache in his chest, and these are not only the slowly forming bruises left by Nate's fists.

* * *

"What the fuck happened there?" Ray demands the moment Brad steps into the briefing room, finally dry and dressed in his suit. Nate has locked himself in his room and Pappy has an eye on him, because Brad really needs a break right now.

"Nothing."

"Oh, hell, no, Brad Colbert, you're not getting out of this one with your half-assed one-word answers. So I'm gonna ask again, what the fuck happened? Jesus fucking Christ, I feel like I'm watching daytime soaps, only now it's in 3D or some shit!"

"Jesus Christ, Ray, he kissed me, that's what happened," Brad admits reluctantly, because this will at least get Person off his back for the time being. "He kissed me, I tried to act professional and then he ran away into that rainstorm. He took it rather hard."

"He's nineteen, Brad, nineteen and in love, apparently, so what the fuck did you expect?" Walt speaks up and it's surprising. He expected a long rant from Ray, but not this. "He may seem so grown-up most of the time, but he's young and inexperienced. He's been in what, one serious relationship? No wonder he went all drama queen on you. And he came out or whatever it is that bisexual people do just for you, only so you could turn him down. It must be hard for him."

There's something twisting and turning inside of Brad, because he knows it's true and he can only imagine how Nate must be feeling right now, but he also knows that it had to be done. It's one of those things they always tell you in training—you can be close, but you can't be too close; it fucks with your perspective and you become the danger. All it takes is just a second of hesitation, one tiny distraction, and sometimes you just can't go back, sometimes it's final, one mistake, that's all.

He can't think of anything happening to Nate. He can't think of anything happening to Nate because of him.

"I suggest you fix it, homes, and fix it fast," Ray says.

"I suggest you fuck off and let me do my job." Brad slams the door on his way out. He needs to make a phone call.

* * *

He knows he's doing the right thing. What he feels for Nate clouds his judgment and he knows that right now he's not capable of protecting him anymore. Everything he'd do from now on would only expose Nate to all those things Brad was supposed to protect him from. That's why he needs to do it.

"With Mrs. Fick, please," he says into his phone. "It's Colbert."

"Did something happen to Nate?" Barbara Fick would sound completely calm if it weren't for that almost imperceptible tremble in her voice.

"He's fine, Mrs. Fick, but there's something else we need to discuss. I can't protect him anymore."

She's silent for a moment and Brad can imagine the surprise in her eyes. "I don't understand, Mr. Colbert," she finally says.

"It's a complicated situation, but believe me, ma'am, right now I'm more of a danger than protection to him. I just… I can't do this anymore. I'll arrange for a replacement, I can recommend Eric Kocher, he's a highly trained specialist, ma'am, and—"

"I don't doubt your professionalism, Mr. Colbert, but I'd like an explanation nonetheless."

Brad sighs and closes his eyes. "It's a personal decision, ma'am. If you won't release me from this assignment, then I'd be happy to submit my letter of resignation the minute I get back to D.C. Or I could email it to the head of security right away."

"There's no need to be that radical, Mr. Colbert. I am not even remotely happy about your decision, but I do not intend to hold you in Baltimore against your will. You will be reassigned, Mr. Kocher will arrive tomorrow in the morning. That would be all, thank you." She disconnects, leaving Brad with a dying phone in his hand. He needs to find the fucking charger.

Brad leans against the wall with his head tilted back and his eyes closed, because he can't bring himself to go and tell Nate, not just yet.

"Brad, if this is your idea of fixing it, then I really don't know what to tell you," Walt says, emerging from behind the corner. "Aside from the fact that this is fucked up and I don't know what you were thinking."

"Didn't your mother teach you it's fucking rude to eavesdrop on people?"

"Brad, don't, okay? I may not have been in the Marines, but I don't need to be Recon to notice and understand what's going on here. Ray's worried, and you know how he gets when he's worried. I'm worried. Fuck, _Poke_ told me he's going to have a serious talk with you."

"He might not get the occasion, I'm out of here first thing in the morning." Brad clenches his jaws and fists.

"This is fucked up," Walt repeats. "What exactly do you think it's gonna accomplish? What, Nate's going to be safer without you, even though you're the fucking Iceman, the best specialist in this whole goddamn business?"

"Didn't they teach you anything, Hasser?" Brad snarls. "There's a line between _close_ and _too attached_ , and I crossed it, so don't try to lecture me on what I should and shouldn't do. Kocher's coming to replace me, and he's a fine specialist, too. Nate's gonna be safe, I'm gonna be far away, just the way it's supposed to be."

Walt shakes his head, but gives up after that and leaves Brad alone.

Brad goes back to him room to find the goddamn charger. When he walks out again, the door leading to Nate's room is set ajar and he can hear muffled voices coming from the inside. He really doesn't mean to eavesdrop, not after what he told Walt, since that would be just fucking ironic, but then he hears Walt say, "Brad got burned in the past, it was pretty bad from what I heard," and stills in the middle of the hallway.

Nate and Walt are sitting on Nate's bed, facing the window, their backs turned to the door. Nate's shoulders are slouched and his head is down, and Brad remembers that he looked exactly that way when they were walking back to the house in the pouring rain. His stomach clenches painfully and it's not because he didn't have anything to eat since yesterday.

Walt sits close, while still maintaining the appropriate distance, but he puts a hand on Nate's shoulder—a friendly gesture, a reminder that there's someone who understands and cares. Brad shouldn't be jealous of Walt, he really shouldn't, because it's just a stupid hand on a shoulder and it's _Walt_ for fuck's sake, but he can't help it. It flares up in his chest and burns his throat so much he has to grit his teeth until they almost crack under the pressure.

"What?" Nate asks, turning his head to look at Walt.

"His long-term girlfriend left him to marry his best friend while he was deployed. They got engaged before Brad went to Afghanistan."

Brad can hear Nate suck in a sharp breath. "Oh God," he says. "I had no idea."

"It fucked him up and he's still bitter and cynical about it, but I think that he's mostly scared, even if he doesn't let it show on the outside," Walt says quietly.

Brad doesn't stick around to hear the rest of it.

* * *

In the afternoon Nate finally comes down and Brad can see how desperately he's trying to fix it, even when there's nothing left to fix, how he's trying to act as if nothing has changed, as if he thinks that even if he can't have Brad like he really wants to, maybe he can still have Brad as a friend.

Brad doesn't know what Walt told him before or after he left, but whatever that was, Nate is trying his best to turn this around and it's breaking Brad inside, piece by piece, with every tentative smile and hesitant look, because he knows that he can't do this. He can't be Nate's friend if he can't be more at the same time, and maybe it's fucking selfish (he knows it is), but Brad has always listened to his instincts, and his instincts are now telling him to get the hell away from what Nate. Away from an unrealized fantasy that went just one step too far.

He's in the kitchen, making coffee, when Nate stands in the doorway, leaning against the wall, observing Brad warily.

"Could you fix me a cup?" he asks, apparently going for casual, but his voice comes out a little strangled.

Now is as good time as ever to get this over with.

"Get your own goddamn coffee. I'm your bodyguard, not your servant." Nate flinches at that. "And I'm not even going to be that in a matter of hours."

Nate makes a few steps towards Brad, then stops and makes one step back. "Brad, can we talk about it?"

"There's nothing to talk about." Brad doesn't look at him, concentrating on pouring his coffee into a cup.

"Don't treat me like some fucking kid," Nate says, exasperated.

Brad turns around rapidly to face him. "You _are_ a kid. Fuck, Nate, you're nineteen, what the hell do you want me to tell you?"

"How about the truth?"

"What truth would that be, exactly?"

Nate pauses for a moment and Brad knows that he finally caught on. "What do you mean, _I'm not even going to be that in a matter of hours_?"

"I'm being reassigned. Eric Kocher will replace me as your personal bodyguard. He's good at his job, solid, thorough. You're going to be safe."

Nate grips the cup he's holding in his hands so hard Brad's afraid it's going to burst into pieces.

"Did you plan on telling me that at all?" he asks. "Or maybe I was just supposed to wake up in the morning and discover that you were already gone? What the fuck is wrong with you, Brad?"

Nate hurls the cup onto the countertop with such force that it breaks, shards falling onto the marble with a dull clank. He glances at the mess, surprised, then looks back at Brad.

"I was obviously wrong about you," he says, his jaw set, even though his hands are trembling. When he turns around and leaves, Brad fights the urge to go after him and stays in his spot by the table instead, trying not to think about what he just did.

He fails at that, too.

* * *

The following morning he wakes up at five and stares at the ceiling for good fifteen minutes before getting up and padding to the shower. He turns the hot water on and stands under the spray for a long time, trying to wash away something that's impossible to rinse off in the first place.

He's not going to miss this place. He's not going to miss anything. (At least that's what he keeps telling himself.)

Nate is still asleep when Brad finishes packing his bags and heads downstairs, leaving them in the hall until the car arrives. Ray is waiting for him by the door, though, with his hands crossed on his chest and a look of disapproval on his face.

"Brad, you know that I love your stupid ass almost as much as I love my momma, but let me tell you one thing. You fucked this up. Royally," he says. "The offer still stands, though. Any time you feel like getting shitfaced or stoned, or shitfaced _and_ stoned, just give your pal Ray-Ray a call. You know I know all the right people and it's gonna be some quality shit."

"Thanks, Ray," Brad says without venom. Half of the time he doesn't even know why he's friends with Person in the first place, and then he knows exactly why.

"I called D.C., Eric's gonna be here in about thirty minutes," Walt announces, coming out of the briefing room. "And he's bringing Mike Wynn with him."

Good. Something familiar will be good for Nate right now.

"I thought he's not cleared for work yet," Ray says. "I mean, he took a bullet to the arm what, five weeks ago? And he's still going through PT."

"Yeah, but he says he's going to go crazy sitting at home and he _can_ , let's say, watch the cameras. Sitting on his ass doesn't require too much physical effort, Ray." Walt rolls his eyes.

"Yeah, well, besides, Gunny knows his shit, so even without his sidearm he's going to be one badass motherfucker if needed." Ray nods and Brad can't help but smile.

Nate doesn't come down to say goodbye when the car finally arrives at seven (Brad doesn't blame him), but Brad can see him watching from the top of the stairs—he's in his running clothes, but someone else is going to run with him today, while Brad will be far away from this place, somewhere in D.C. or wherever they tell him to go.

Gunny gives him a strange look when he notices the glaring lack of Nate, and Eric just shakes his head like he already knows what's going on (well, maybe he really does, since he's been talking to both Ray and Walt, and maybe that's better, because now at least he'll know to tread carefully), and then Brad stuffs his bags in the trunk and drives away, a rainfall of gravel falling from underneath the tires.

Once in D.C., he hears that he should take a day off and then he's going to work security for the family residence here in the city.

So he goes back home, picks up the mail from his overstuffed mailbox on his way up, nods to Carrie, who lives just next door, as she goes to walk her dog. Leia apparently thinks he's the Han to her, well, Leia, and she must love Brad deeply and passionately, because she doesn't let him go until he scratches her behind her ear for a long time, while Carrie makes small talk.

"Haven't seen you in a while," she says, smiling. "Everything all right, Viking warrior?"

Brad laughs. "I've been away, working. Now I'm back for good. Vicky still out of town?" It's amazing how much you can learn about other people's lives just talking to them once in a while for as long as it takes to pet a dog.

"She's coming back soon. Can't wait. I don't know how people do this whole long distance thing."

Brad bites his lip. "Yeah. I imagine it must be tough," he says stiffly. "Anyway, I had a couple of rough weeks, I should be going, get some rest."

She doesn't know that he could survive up to forty-eight hours on no sleep whatsoever and still be combat-effective. It takes more than a couple of rough weeks to break him. This doesn't explain why he feels like his legs are going to give out any minute now.

"I'll see you, then," Carrie says.

"Sure. Take care. And say _hi_ to Vicky once she comes back."

The sound of his key turning in the lock sounds almost surreal in his ears and his apartment feels like it in fact belongs to someone else who just has similar taste in music and interior design. He often felt that way when he was coming back after a deployment and everything would seem strange, out of place and a bit unreal in the first few weeks.

He throws his keys on the table and fishes out a bottle of water from the otherwise empty fridge. He needs to stock up if he's going to actually live here.

* * *

He doesn't see Nate after that, even though he works at his parents' house now, but he is probably still in Baltimore. So he doesn't see Nate, but he still keeps tabs on him, and Ray and Walt make sure he gets his intel regularly.

There's one phone call from Mike Wynn he'd rather forget, but it's only fair, he guesses, after everything that happened, and Mike only yells at him for ten minutes and threatens him with bodily harm only about five times before telling him to fucking get a grip and fix that. Fix Nate, who's miserable and sad, even if he doesn't let it show and thinks he has everybody fooled. Brad thinks back to their first meeting and yes, he knows exactly what Gunny's talking about.

"Too late, Mike," he says. "Some things can't be fixed. And it's better that way in the long run."

"Brad, I always thought you were intelligent, but it looks like you're just as retarded as it gets," Mike tells him. "What exactly are you trying to prove? That you can make both of you fucking miserable for nothing? It ain't that hard to say _I'm sorry_ , you know."

"Sometimes _I'm sorry_ doesn't fix anything," Brad says. "But you can tell him that. That I'm sorry it couldn't be any other way. That it ended like this. I didn't mean to—" he disconnects and rubs his eyes furiously for a moment.

He gets a text a few seconds later. It reads, _why don't you fucking tell him yourself?_

He gets some evenings off now and he goes out for a drink from time to time—one night, after one of his visits at the local bar, he ends up at some guy's place, but ten minutes later he simply gathers his things and leaves. The guy goes after him, barefoot, demanding to know what the fuck happened, but Brad just tells him that he can't do that and pushes the main door. His jeans are still completely buttoned up.

He should probably move on, though.

"One of his friends is visiting him," Walt says one day during a phone call. "Taylor or Tyler, didn't really catch that."

In the background Ray goes on and on about what a straight homosexual country-music Special Olympic gay name that is. Brad involuntarily smiles, but then it hits him.

"And where were all those friends when he was sitting there alone for the whole fucking summer, getting some stupid ideas into his head?" he asks.

"Away, apparently, getting some fucking wicked tan in Australia," Ray answers in a breathy voice after some hustling. He was most probably trying to pry the phone out of Walt's hand. "Nobody says _no_ to Australia, homes."

He would say _no_ to Australia if the other option was Nate. These are just some completely strange people out there, and a patch of land. Nothing overly impressive.

"And let me just say, Brad," Ray continues, "that his name is not the only gay thing about that dude."

Brad swallows. So maybe Nate has already moved on. That's good. (Maybe if he keeps telling himself that, he'll eventually believe it.)

"Tell him—" he pauses, thinks about it once again. "Actually, don't tell him anything. Thanks for the update."

He's about to disconnect when Ray asks, "Brad, why do you do this to yourself? You don't work for him anymore, so what's the fucking problem?"

"Goodbye, Ray."

The problem is, there are still things that won't magically change or disappear—the age difference, his job, the fact that Brad's not even sure what Nate felt for him and if he'd even felt anything more than anger and confusion after his break-up with Sandy. It's more than enough to convince him to stay away.

* * *

Christopher Fick's birthday comes at the end of August and they decide to throw a small party despite the new threats.

"I can't let them dictate how we live our lives any more than it's necessary," says Barbara Fick when she's going over the security detail with Brad. In this particular case, a small party means that there's going to be about a hundred people in the house.

"Of course, ma'am. It's understandable."

She smiles. "If everything's clear, that would be all, Mr. Colbert. Thank you for your time."

"Ma'am." Brad nods and leaves the study.

In the hallway, just around the corner, he runs into Nate and it's laughable, really, that he didn't take into account that Nate would come back to D.C. for his father's birthday party. It surprises him more than it should and he just stands there for a moment, looking at Nate, who is terrifyingly silent, like he has nothing more to say to Brad. Once again, Brad guesses he can't blame him for that.

"Nate," he says with a nod.

"I'm sorry, my mother's expecting me," Nate answers stiffly, pushing past Brad.

He walks downstairs to let Patterson and Eckloff know what's been decided when someone shouts after him, "Yo, Iceman!"

It's Poke, standing at the end of the hallway, waving at him to come over. He looks worried. "Dawg, I have a bad feeling about this," he says. "There have been new threats, I just spoke to Patterson. What the fuck are the police waiting for? Why don't they push those motherfuckers harder and catch those bastards?"

Brad shakes his head. "They're investigating those threats and believe me, the chief of police is shitting himself at the mere thought that something might happen to people like the Ficks, but they don't have enough evidence to do anything, and those guys are professionals, they know how to clean up after themselves. My guy on the force says all leads are just dead ends. They got the feds on it, too, but so far they got fucking zero. Go figure."

"You think this is a good idea?" Poke asks. "I mean, to throw that party. It's taking unnecessary risks if you ask me, dawg, but I guess it's always like that with white, privileged people. They need to get what they want, everything else be damned."

"This place is protected better than the fucking White House and you know that. Nothing's going to happen. You'd have to be insane to try something in here. Besides, sure, they could lock themselves in a bunker, but what would that serve to accomplish, exactly?"

Poke shrugs. "I'm just saying. I don't like this."

"Well, it's a fucking relief, then, that nobody's asking your opinion on that. By the way, when did you come back? I thought you were holed up in Baltimore for good."

"We came with Nate in the morning. Everybody who's available is being pulled back for the party gig."

"Just like I told you, Poke. The Secret Service has nothing on us."

Espera looks at him skeptically. "Yeah, I hope you're right, dawg. For all our sakes."

* * *

On the day of the party everyone seems to be more tense than usual, and Brad fucking hates the tension this sort of an event inevitably brings about in people—it leaves more room for mistakes and, contrary to the popular belief, does nothing to help them focus. It just keeps them on their toes, unsure of everything except one thing—that they will do everything they can to protect the other people.

Brad catches a glimpse of Nate on his way to the main dining hall—a white, crisp, starched and perfectly pressed shirt, a sharp, dark-grey suit that brings about his eyes, a silk tie. He's looking straight ahead and doesn't notice Brad's presence. There is, however, one of his young cousins, who does. The girl says something to Nate, pointing discreetly at Brad, and when Nate turns his head, their eyes lock for a split second, before Brad nods politely and goes on his way.

"It's Colbert. Everything clear by the main entrance," he reports. In his earpiece, Patterson is telling him that everyone else reported all clear, too. "Copy that. Colbert out."

They breathe in relief when everything goes without a hitch. The guests come and go unscathed, no one tries to set an example or leave a message that's bound to be tragic enough to make an impact. It's almost anticlimactic in its calmness.

Brad is there by the front door as the house slowly clears out and he can see Nate coming in his direction. Then he stops and turns, heading for the door and into the car waiting to take him back to Baltimore, but for a moment he's so close that all Brad would have to do is reach out, grab him by the wrist and say, _Don't go_.

His fingers itch at the memory of a half-forgotten ghost of a touch.

* * *

When he gets the call, it's after five, and he goes from fast asleep to fully alert in a matter of seconds. He almost expects to hear the sound of heavy artillery directly above his head.

It's Ray on the phone and for one second Brad wants to ignore it, but Ray doesn't generally call Brad at some ass o'clock when he's sober and on duty.

"What?" he rasps into the phone.

"Brad." If he weren't awake already, Ray's tone of voice alone would sober him up in a heartbeat.

"Christ, Ray, _what_?"

"They have Nate."

For a moment Brad forgets how to breathe. And it's a good thing he's sitting, because he can feel his legs giving out under him. He can hear his own heartbeat drumming in his ears. He sits perfectly still for a moment, because it's such a bizarre, surreal moment. This isn't happening, he isn't having this conversation and he's most probably still asleep. The dream resembles the reality a bit too much for his comfort.

"The place is crawling with feds. They want to talk to everyone who's been in contact with Nate recently. You should come as soon as you can."

Brad doesn't remember getting dressed and taking his bike out from the underground garage. He vaguely remembers violating a bunch of speed limits, but he would kill anyone who tried to stop him right now. It's really better there isn't anyone who does.

There are two black SUVs parked outside the residence and a grim man in dark suit does a body search on Brad before letting him inside. Ray's waiting for him in the hallway. Walt's there as well, biting his nails and looking like he's been through hell in the last couple of hours.

"What the hell happened?"

"They never arrived in Baltimore. We lost contact with the guards in the car. We don't know anything. The kidnappers didn't contact the Ficks yet."

Brad clenches his fists until his knuckles go white. "And how the fuck did _that_ happen? And why the hell weren't you in the car?"

"They pulled us back at the last moment," Walt says, staring at his feet, "Schwetje's team was supposed to take care of Nate tonight, we were supposed to stay here until the party was over, make our rounds to check if everything was okay and go back to Baltimore first thing in the morning. I don't know whose decision was that."

"Patterson's fucking livid. You've never seen him like that. He yelled at Encino Man for, like, ten minutes and then tried to knock him down. Kocher and Lovell pulled him away before he got the chance. Shame."

When Brad enters the guards headquarters, Patterson is pacing furiously, talking to somebody on the phone. At the sound of Brad's steps, he turns around and greets him with a nod. They're alone, everyone else is away, dealing with the crisis (it sounds so comical even in his own mind, _the crisis_ , like it's something completely impersonal and detached, just another job, another mission, when in fact it's _Nate_ ).

"How did that happen, Bryan?" Brad asks once Patterson disconnects. "How _the fuck_ did that happen?"

Patterson rubs his face and shakes his head. "That fucking retard," he says and they both know who he's talking about. "He didn't do his homework, didn't check his own goddamn people thoroughly enough. Two of them were supposed to drive Nate back to Baltimore. The theory we've come up with so far says that the driver must've been paid off by the kidnappers and he somehow managed to disarm the second guard, or maybe they both were in on it. As of yet, they didn't make any contact, but we're expecting a call soon."

Brad has to ask, even though it's nearly impossible to think, much less say the words out loud. "Don't you take into consideration that he might have been—"

"No." Patterson cuts him off. "That would accomplish nothing. They need him alive as leverage."

There's fury rising in Brad's chest and he wants to punch something, punch until his knuckles are bleeding. He can't bear the thought that Nate's somewhere out there and maybe he's the one bleeding. If something happens to him, it's going to be Brad's fault, because if he'd managed to get his feelings for Nate under control and stayed, none of this would have happened.

Brad doesn't believe in God, not like Nate does, but in that moment he prays just in case.

"Brad, you're here, good," he hears and turns around to see Craig Schwetje standing in the doorway. "The agents want to talk to you."

He doesn't think about it, he just steps closer and takes a swing, hears the crack of a broken jaw. He must've hit harder than he thought, he thinks, the thought astonishingly clear and detached despite the red mist before his eyes. And his fist must've gotten caught on a tooth, because he got his wish. His knuckles are bleeding.

"You motherfucker," he spits out with venom, hovering over Schwetje, who's lying on the floor, trying to stop the bleeding. Patterson and Kocher, who appeared, alarmed by the sounds of a fight, try to pull Brad away from Encino Man, but he struggles in their grip.

Schwetje slowly pulls himself up, pressing a hand to his jaw and nose. There's still blood trickling between his fingers.

"Lovell, get your ass to the headquarters," Patterson requests over the comms. Lovell comes in a moment later and takes in the sight before his eyes. "Take him to the hospital." Patterson sighs, pointing to Schwetje. "Brad, you get your hand cleaned and bandaged, and then go talk to the fucking feds, let's get this over with."

Brad doesn't remember much of that conversation. They ask him all the usual questions and he tells them everything he knows. It's fucking useless anyway. The agent questioning him is professional and thorough, and she keeps looking at Brad like she wants to see right through him.

"What was the nature of your relationship with Mr. Fick?" she asks at some point.

"We were close." Brad closes his eyes for a moment, then opens them to look at the agent. "It's inevitable once you spend that much time together and don't hate the other person's guts from the very beginning."

"Why did you quit, then? Because from what I gather, you requested to be reassigned, am I right?"

"Personal reasons."

She raises a brow. "I'm going to need you to be a little more specific. Were those personal reasons in any way related to Mr. Fick?"

"Agent Brewster," Brad leans forward in his chair, putting his elbows on his knees, "you need to understand one thing. When you protect someone, you need to be close, but you can't be too close. I crossed that line and I was aware that it might impair my judgment, so I did the only reasonable thing and resigned from the position. Does that satisfy your need for specificity?"

"For now," she says, giving him a stern look. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Colbert."

He's almost out the door when he turns around and asks, "Is there anything I can do?"

"You can let us do our jobs, Mr. Colbert."

Like you did when you were investigating those threats, he wants to say, but he knows better than to make an enemy out of a fed. They probably weren't even those same feds who were supposed to keep tabs on the incoming threats. Maybe these agents here aren't such fucking retards and actually know what they're doing. He can only hope.

"That would be all for now," agent Brewster says. Brad knows when he's being politely told to fuck off.

The next hours are filled with endless waiting—it's always the worst, just sitting there, not knowing what to do or how to get through this and come out sane, when the hands of the clock move as if in slow motion and you're sure that it's already been hours when in fact it's been only minutes, when all you can do is just try to hang on, suspended in that vast space full of _ifs_ and _maybes_.

Brad is gritting his teeth so hard his whole jaw hurts. He needs to do something, _anything_ , or else he's going to go mad. What he can't do is look Barbara Fick in the eye. She looks like a ghost, even if there's still that steel resolve hidden underneath her gray, tired face marred by sorrow. Her husband is in an equally bad shape, but the thought that it was her Brad talked to when he submitted his resignation, that she knows he's the one to blame makes his stomach clench painfully and his throat close off every time she so much as glances at him.

The kidnappers call around noon. Brad can hear Nate's voice on the loudspeaker and his legs almost give out under him, because even if he didn't dare think Nate might be already dead, the possibility of that still resided somewhere on the edges of his subconscious, nagging him like a partly-formed thought never fully realized.

They don't want a ransom. At least that's not the only thing they want. In addition to five million dollars, they want the Ficks to withdraw their support for the stricter control of gun trading. Arms dealers apparently don't like their livelihoods being messed with.

Agent Todd, the leader of the FBI team, pushes a button on the phone and looks at Christopher Fick expectantly. "What do you want to tell them?"

"If we yield to their demands now, what will stop them or someone else from trying to blackmail us again in the future?" he asks and runs a hand down his face.

"If you tell them that, there's a chance they will resort to violence. We're trying to find your son, Mr. Fick, we just need you to buy us some time to do that. You can bluff, tell them you agree to their terms and you'll make your decision known once your son is released and not a second earlier. And keep them talking. We're trying to trace the signal."

Fick nods and pushes the button with a shaking finger. Brad can't sit there and watch this. He needs some air.

Outside, he lets himself slide down the wall and he sits like that for a moment with his eyes closed. It's raining and today Brad hates the fucking rain.

* * *

  
He doesn't go home that night. He would go mad in the quiet, empty apartment, not knowing what the latest news on Nate is. He stays at the residence and tries to catch at least a few hours of sleep, curled up on the couch that's too small for his limbs; Lilley was told to wake him up the minute they get to know something new.

He ends up sleeping for forty minutes at best. It doesn't matter anyway. He can survive on no sleep up to three days. By that time it should be done, one way or the other. Brad knows the statistics.

He doesn't know what he's going to do if Nate doesn't make it. He doesn't want to even consider such a possibility.

Brad goes downstairs only to find Barbara Fick in the living room, alone, half-asleep in the armchair, and he's about to quietly step back, trying not to disturb her, when she says, "Brad."

"Ma'am?" he replies, his voice hoarse, and he clears his throat.

"Could you come here for a moment?"

Brad steps into the dimly lit room and hesitantly takes a seat on the armrest of the sofa. Mrs. Fick offers him a glass of scotch, but he shakes his head. He doesn't ask her if she's all right. He knows she's a mess. They all are. There's nothing but silence between them for a long while and Brad starts wondering if she invited him over just to have someone who would sit with her, breathe next to her, just within an arm's reach, just so she knows she's still alive. Brad recognizes this feeling—after coming back from the theater, he would leave the radio on at all times for the first couple of weeks, because he couldn't sleep without any background noise. Even the sound of traffic coming through the window was not enough to deceive his senses.

"Nate told me, you know," she says quietly and almost manages to startle him. Brad looks at her with his eyes wide open. "Why you resigned and left."

There's a sense of dread coming over him and he can feel his heart drumming, fluttering furiously in his throat, because he realizes what's coming next. He doesn't even try to pretend that he doesn't know what she's talking about, it's best to just get this over with. He braces himself for the blow.

"I just want my son to be happy, Mr. Colbert," Barbara Fick says then, gripping the tumbler she's holding with a slightly shaking hand and Brad thinks he must've heard that wrong. That's not what he expected whatsoever. "And I don't care if some people think it's inappropriate, as long as he's happy with his choices. I hope you can understand that."

"Yes, ma'am," he manages through a tightened throat.

"He was so angry after you left. And sad. He couldn't understand what he did wrong." Brad takes a deep breath and holds it in his lungs for a moment with his eyes closed, and when he releases it and opens his eyes once again, he finds Barbara Fick looking at him with scrutiny. "But he didn't do anything wrong, did he? I'm not blind, Brad. But you are, apparently, and that's not a good trait in a bodyguard."

"Ma'am, I—"

Barbara Fick raises a hand to silence him. Brad stops mid-sentence.

"There's being noble and then there's being self-sacrificial with no good reason, Mr. Colbert," she says. "I know you've had your reasons for doing what you did and I accept that. I'm just asking you to reconsider. Your reputation precedes you and I was never sleeping better than when you were there to protect my son." Brad knows that's not a reproach, but he still almost flinches. "And I don't care about anything else, as long as he's safe and happy. That would be a petty thing to do, and I'm not that kind of a mother. He's old enough to decide for himself. You should remember that, too."

Brad thinks of sheets of rain falling down on warm bodies, of angry words and punches in the chest, of that look of utter despair and hurt in Nate's eyes and he wants to say that sometimes it's not like that at all, that sometimes people can be mature and at the same time remain so young inside that it doesn't take much to miscalculate and hurt them. Like Walt. Walt's tough and professional at what he does, but right now there are dark circles under his eyes and his nails are completely bitten off.

"If— When he comes back, would you, please, reconsider my proposal?" Mrs. Fick finally asks after a moment of silence. Brad only nods in response.

* * *

It's been almost forty-eight hours and Brad knows the statistics. Most of the victims of kidnapping don't survive the first forty-eight hours. Now, the situation is different this time, because there's ransom involved and the kidnappers want something besides feeding on the pain of their victim. But this doesn't mean they aren't on the clock.

The feds have a couple of leads, but so far they got nothing of use. They're still looking, looking under every rock for clues and people who know people. The kidnappers call two more times and they don't put Nate on the phone. Brad doesn't know whether to be mortified or relieved.

When they call for the fourth time in general, they say that Nate is running out of time and that they won't wait any longer. Brad can hear the click as the safety is being turned off.

"That was your last warning," one of the kidnappers says. "Next time I'm going to shoot. You have two hours. And you better make that statement, Mr. Fick."

Todd swears under his breath. "Give me anything. _Anything_. I don't care how improbable that is, just fucking get me something. And I want a SWAT team standing by."

"At this point, why don't you just pay the fucking ransom and promise to make the goddamn statement as soon as Nate's free?" Brad grits his teeth and clenches his fists.

"The situation has changed," Todd says in an irritated voice. "We've identified the kidnappers and we have a reason to believe that they won't release the hostage alive, even if the ransom is paid. That's why we're trying to find him before the deadline. If we don't, an exchange will be arranged and we'll do everything we can to ensure it goes without a hitch. But we'd rather get him out before they do something radical and irreversible." They're having this conversation in hushed voices, aware of the fact that they're not alone in the room, but they're not fooling anyone. It's bad.

The breakthrough comes when there's only half an hour left, and Brad worries they might be too late after all. The SWAT team is on its way in a matter of seconds and Brad's first impulse is to check for his M4 and go after them, but his hands are empty while some of his instincts are still sharp and intact.

The next thirty minutes are the worst of it all, when Brad doesn't know what to do with himself and ends up patrolling outside the house, waiting for a visual contact, for the FBI SUVs to come back and for Nate to climb out of one of them, alive and well. It's infuriating, this impossibility of doing anything besides waiting and for Brad, for whom taking action is the only thing he knows how to do, this is torture, worse than anything the Saddam followers were capable of inflicting upon them back in that clusterfuck of an operation.

When the cars arrive, agent Brewster is the first one to get out and Brad immediately sees that her hands are smeared with blood. Everything inside him stops for a moment no longer than a fraction of a second, but his lungs and throat are burning from the lack of air. He takes his next breath only when he sees Nate getting out of the second car. He's alive. He's here. He _is_. The rest doesn't matter. A wave of relief sweeps over him and he needs to be alone for a moment to get his feelings under control. He's pretty sure no one sees him when he leans against the wall, pressing his forehead to the cold brick, closes his eyes and just breathes in and out, slowly, steadily, taking large gasps of air.

It's Ray who finally finds him. "Hey, Brad, you okay?"

"I'm fine, Ray. How is he?"

"Shaken up as fuck, but he'll live. The feds killed one of those motherfuckers who kidnapped him, another took a bullet to the chest, but the fucking piece of shit will live. He's going to watch the world from behind the bars for a long time, though. I hope the prison will be a fucking _hell_ for him." He kicks the dirt. "Let that sister-fucking whiskey-tango piece of trash rot."

"Tell me how you really feel," Brad says, but the joke falls flat somewhere between them. The tension has just started to wear off and they're still stressed and exhausted like hell.

"You should get some sleep, homes. You look like shit."

"Yeah, I will." Brad nods. "But I need to do something first."

* * *

The door to Nate's room is slightly open, almost like an invitation, but Brad knocks nonetheless.

"Come in," says Nate, his voice muffled. When Brad comes in, Nate's sitting on his bed, still dressed in the same clothes he was wearing when they brought him in. He looks terribly pale and shell-shocked, but that's understandable when you had a barrel of a gun pressed to your forehead not that long ago.

"Nate." Brad reaches out, wants to touch him, to make sure that he's real, that there's a beating heart underneath that pale, freckled skin, that this body is warm and soft and alive. "Christ, Nate…"

He stands up and comes over to where Brad's standing.

In this one second between reaching out and touching Nate's shoulder, Brad understands exactly what that means, he finally comprehends that Nate isn't going anywhere, that he's still _Nate_ , not a body with a record number on the tag.

"I just wanted to—" Brad starts, not letting go of Nate's shoulder, gripping it hard enough to leave bruises. "Are you okay?"

And then there are arms wrapping around his neck and a warm body leaning against his own.

"I am now," Nate says into the crook of his neck.

He presses his lips to Nate's temple, burying a hand in his hair, and doesn't let him go. He might be shaking just a little bit.

"Brad," Nate whispers after a moment and this time, when he kisses him, Brad kisses back. It's slow and gentle and intimate, the way Nate's palm presses at the nape of his neck, drawing small circles with his thumb, the way he licks into Brad's mouth and gets even closer until Brad can feel his eyelashes fluttering against his skin.

"You're fine," Brad says with his lips against Nate's cheek. "You're fine." He doesn't know who it really is that he's trying to reassure.

* * *

They go back to Baltimore at the end of the week and Brad finds it to be more peaceful and quiet than he remembered. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that the last time Brad was there, he was as far from enjoying the peace of mind as possible.

They fall back into their old routine quite fast, only now they don't have to hide behind the raised walls of self-preservation and pretend that they don't mean anything to each other, even if there are still some things left unsaid between them.

"I love you, you know," Nate says one evening, between typing up an email and reaching for his cup standing on the coffee table. Brad's watching a game on ESPN. "I don't want you to think that you need to say something. I just wanted to let you know," he amends matter-of-factly.

Brad turns the TV on mute and looks at Nate, who's sitting right beside him, pressing against Brad's side, flushed and biting his lower lip, and maybe he really thinks it was just a casual declaration, but it wasn't. Not really.

"I wouldn't be here if I didn't," he says, running a hand up and down Nate's thigh. He hopes that Nate understands.

And maybe he does, if the palm closing around Brad's hand and squeezing lightly is any indication.

Nate puts his laptop away on the floor and climbs into Brad's lap, straddling his thighs. He's wearing only a plaid shirt over a tank top and when he kisses Brad's jaw, nipping gently at his five o'clock shadow, flicking his tongue over the line of bone hidden shallowly underneath the skin, Brad pushes the shirt down his shoulders and arms, until it's lying forgotten on the carpet.

"Brad, come on," Nate whispers into his ear, grinding against him, before catching the earlobe between his teeth and biting lightly. Brad draws a sharp breath and he can feel Nate smirk against his cheek, but he figures that two can play this game.

There's a spot just behind Nate's ear that makes him gasp and his hips buck when Brad licks it just to scrape his teeth against the skin a moment later, soothing the sharp sensation with his lips. When he looks down between them, he discovers with a small surprise that his shirt got somehow half undone and Nate's mapping Brad's body with his hands. His fingers travel along the line of the collarbone and sternum, and then down, slipping under the shirt, gently touching the muscles of Brad's stomach.

"Jesus, you two, get a room," Ray says as he passes by the door. Brad gives him the finger. Nate laughs, hiding his face in the spot where Brad's neck meets his shoulder and he blows warm air on the flushed skin, sending a chill through Brad's body.

"Maybe we really should get a room," he says, his voice lower than usual. Brad stills in his place.

The thing is, they haven't had sex yet, even though they wasted so much time before, running in circles, but Brad insisted that they wait. Not because he's particularly conservative when it comes to fucking, but because they had enough issues to resolve even without the sex clouding their minds. They still aren't quite there yet, since it's hard to get rid of years of harbored hurt and sense of betrayal along with trust issues in a few weeks, but Brad wants it to work more than anything in his life, so he's trying, failing and trying again until he finally gets it right. He hopes that one day he will.

"Brad, come on, please. I want you to do this. Please," Nate breathes out against his ear, sneaking his hand into Brad's pants and gripping him firmly, then stroking experimentally and Brad hisses through his teeth, clenching his fists so hard that his fingernails leave white, crescent-shaped marks that turn red when he finally manages to pry his hands open. "Please, Brad."

"Okay, let's go," he says in a hushed, strangled voice.

He's painfully hard in his jeans and the fact that Nate rubs against him as he tries to disentangle himself from Brad's body and stand up doesn't help in the slightest.

Once they're in Nate's room, he reaches down to the nightstand drawer, pulls out a bottle of lube and a couple of condoms and lays them out on the bed. That's not at all what Brad expected from this evening. A mutual blowjob, maybe, if Nate were up to it, because he may know everything there's to know about eating pussy after being in a relationship with a girl for a few years, but Brad doesn't forget even for a moment that he's never been with another man before and it's all an uncharted territory for him.

"Are you sure?" he asks and Nate nods.

"I really want this," he says with his lips against Brad's mouth and Brad can feel every letter, every syllable on his own skin.

Brad hesitates. He remembers his first experience of this kind, a long time ago in what feels like another life, and it wasn't all that pleasant, no stars under eyelids, no nothing, just that burning, stretching sensation and the feeling that it was too much, too fast, but he gritted his teeth and got through it, even if he didn't come at all. He doesn't want Nate to feel like that. He doesn't want himself make him feel like that.

"Brad, come on, I— Do you think I can't handle this?" Nate asks, stripping down to his underwear and Brad follows suit. "I'm not some scared kid ready to run away crying."

"I never said you were. But I just—"

"Shut up, Brad." Nate kisses him, hard, smashing their lips together. "Shut up, just for a second. I can handle this and I _want_ this. Also, I'm not stupid and I really can use google, you know. I'm not some clueless, blushing virgin."

Brad laughs against his lips. "Nate Fick, dutifully doing his research even when it comes to sex. Why am I not surprised?"

"You'd be surprised what you can learn online," Nate whispers, leaning in and reaching under the elastic of Brad's briefs and closing his hand around him, stroking evenly, slowly driving him mad. He kisses Brad in the hollow between the collarbones and teases the spot with his tongue, then licks a stripe along the sternum. "I want to blow you," he says and everything goes black before Brad's eyes for a moment, because, Christ, even the mere thought of that is impossibly hot.

It might not be the best blowjob of his life, because Nate's technique is a bit sloppy and he fights his gag reflex when he takes Brad deeper, but Brad really doesn't give a damn—the sight of Nate on his knees, looking up at him through his eyelashes, with his red, swollen mouth wrapped around Brad's dick is enough to make him come far too soon.

Nate touches his lips with the tips of his fingers and tastes Brad on his tongue before wiping his chin with the back of his hand. He looks debauched, his skin flushed and his hair in total disarray, lips red and puffy, his pupils blown.

"Come here," Brad says, and then he kisses him, deep and rough and desperate. "Christ, you're so beautiful…" (He doesn't do this. He doesn't say things like that. And then he does. It's all Nate's fault.)

"Brad," Nate says, reaching for the lube and pushing it into Brad's palm. Brad looks down on their touching hands.

"Okay. Okay," he whispers.

He breathes deeply in and out before joining Nate on the bed, then he spreads him out on the mattress and slowly opens him up, taking his time, adding finger after finger patiently until Nate's eyes glaze over when he crooks them slightly, finding that spot inside Nate that makes him gasp.

He's kissing him as he finally slowly eases into him, and he knows exactly when Nate stops breathing for a moment just to pull Brad even closer for another kiss when the feeling passes and he's able to relax once again in Brad's embrace. Brad keeps his eyes open the whole time, drinking in the sight of Nate under him, lying with his eyes half-closed and his lips parted, his head tilted back, his neck exposed and inviting, just waiting for Brad to dip his head and mark him, a small, angry bruise that says _you're mine now_.

"Up," Nate pants out between kisses, throwing his arms around Brad's neck and Brad obliges, straightening up to sit on the bed, with Nate still in his lap, their bodies so close that he can feel Nate's heartbeat against his chest. Nate kisses his neck, his shoulder, his collarbone and doesn't stop moving even for a moment, sliding slowly up and down until he's reduced to incoherent mess of whispered words, tugging on Brad's hair as he takes him a bit deeper.

It's surprising for both of them when Nate comes in Brad's hand all of a sudden, leaving marks on Brad's shoulders, gasping for a breath as he strokes him through his orgasm, Nate's body so sensitive that every touch must almost bring him to the verge of pain, so Brad keeps it light, gentle until Nate slowly comes down and arches into Brad, urging him to follow. He leans his head against Nate's shoulder and finally gives in.

"That was hot," Nate says after a he regains his voice, lying next to Brad, their legs tangled together under the sheets. "I never thought it could be like that."

Instead of answering, Brad kisses him then, running a hand along Nate's arm.

"Don't go," Nate says unexpectedly when Brad shifts on the bed to get more comfortable, grabbing him by the wrist. "I want you to stay till morning. I want you to _stay_."

After that, Brad stops sleeping in his old room down the hall altogether.

It works, against Brad's worst fears. The rest, somehow, doesn't matter.

One morning in the early September, when he wakes up just before sunrise, the rain is tapping on the glass, and in the dull, gray light seeping through the window he can see Nate sleeping peacefully with his face pressed against Brad's shoulder and his hand gripping Brad's forearm. He will wake up in a little while and smile at Brad, rubbing his eyes to chase away the remnants of sleep. They will kiss, maybe, a slow, lazy kiss instead of _good morning_ , and he will sweep a thumb over that mark on Nate's collarbone, angry red and still fresh from last night, and he will blow Nate just to see him flushed and gasping for air, whispering Brad's name. Then they will get cleaned up, get dressed and go on a run, even if it's still raining, and they will just _be_. And that will be enough.


End file.
